Lynching - Annick Press

A murder, a scapegoat, 

and a terrible injustice . . . 

It’s 1884 and 15-year-old George Gillies and his family are 

immigrants to the new Washington Territory, where white 

settlers have an uneasy relationship with Native Indians. 

When George and his siblings discover the murdered body of a 

local man, suspicion immediately falls on a Native named Louie 

Sam. George and his best friend follow a mob of angry townsmen 

north into Canada, where the culprit is seized and hung. 

the 

Lynching 

of 

Louie Sam 

Soon George begins to have doubts. Louie Sam was a boy, 

only 14—could he really be a vicious murderer? Are the mob 

leaders concealing a shocking secret? As George tries to uncover 

the truth, he faces his own part in the tragedy. But standing up 

for what’s right is a daunting challenge. 

This powerful novel is inspired by the true story of the only 

recorded lynching on Canadian soil, recently acknowledged 

as a historical injustice by Washington State. 

978-1-55451-438-0 $12.95 

a novel by 

Elizabeth 

Stewart

Copyright Annick Press 2012

Copyright Annick Press 2012 

© 2012 Elizabeth Stewart 

Annick Press Ltd. 

All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may 

be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic, or 

mechanical— without the prior written permission of the publisher. 

Edited by Pam Robertson 

Copyedited by Linda Pruessen 

Cover design by Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design 

Cover background image © lama-photography / photocase.com 

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario 

Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund 

(CBF) for our publishing activities. 

Cataloging in Publication 

Stewart, Elizabeth (Elizabeth Mary) 

The lynching of Louie Sam / Elizabeth Stewart. 

ISBN 978-1-55451-439-7 (bound).—ISBN 978-1-55451-438-0 (pbk.) 

1. Sam, Louie, d. 1884—Juvenile fiction. 2. British Columbia— 

History—1871-1918—Juvenile fiction. I. Title. 

Author’s Note 

On the night of February 27, 1884, two white teenagers 

followed a lynch mob comprised of their fathers and 

almost a hundred other American settlers north from the 

Washington Territory into British Columbia, Canada. 

There they seized Louie Sam, a member of the Stó:lō 

First Nation, from lawful custody and hung him, claiming 

he was guilty of murdering one of their own. This novel 

is the fictionalized story of those two teenagers, George 

Gillies and Peter Harkness. Readers should be advised that 

the racism expressed by these and other characters, while 

offensive, is meant to reflect the attitudes of the period. 

I have taken care in writing this historical fiction not to 

presume to express the thoughts or feelings of Louie Sam 

or the Stó:lō people, apart from what has been reported in 

the public record. The story of Louie Sam—who he was 

and what the injustice of his death meant and continues to 

mean to the Stó:lō Nation—remains to be told. 

PS8637.T49445L96 2012 jC813'.6 C2012-901957-7 

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Printed in Canada 

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According to the Tuskegee Institute of Alabama, between 

1882 and 1968 there were 4,742 lynchings in the United 

States. In Canada during the same period there was one— 

the lynching of Louie Sam. 

For Louie Sam 

“Groups tend to be more immoral than 

individuals.” 

—Martin Luther King Junior


Chapter One 

Washington Territory, 1884 

My name is George Gillies. My parents are 

Scottish by birth and I was born in England, but since 

we immigrated, we’re all Americans now. We live near 

the town of Nooksack in the Washington Territory, 

just south of the International Border with British 

Columbia, Canada. Mam says the way we children 

speak, we sound just like we were born here. 

In Scotland and England, my father, Peter Gillies, 

worked the farmlands of one rich laird after another. 

He likes to tell anyone who will listen that we came 

to America for freedom’s sake—by which, he’ll add 

with a wink, he means the land he purchased almost 

for free from lumbermen here in the Nooksack Valley. 

Father considered it a bargain because the land had 

already been cleared of the giant fir trees that grow in 

these parts to a hundred feet or more. Our house is a 

log cabin made from those firs, but we have plans to 

build a fine two-story plank house one day. 

7


Father likes his joke, but he is serious about 

freedom, too. He tells us kids never to forget that the 

land we own is ours for all time and makes us free in 

ways we never could have been in Great Britain. Here, 

Father answers to no one but himself and God. And 

Mam says he only answers to God on Sundays. 

A couple of years back, my brothers and I helped 

Father build a dam on Sumas Creek, which cuts 

through our land. We run a gristmill off the millpond 

that resulted from that dam. Homesteaders bring 

wagonloads of grain and corn from miles around 

to our mill to be ground into flour and meal. The 

driveshaft is trimmed from a Lodgepole pine and the 

waterwheel and pit wheel are made from fir. Father 

has plans to bring in a steel driveshaft from back 

east once the Canadians finish building their railroad 

through British Columbia. And once we’ve saved 

enough money from selling our miller’s toll—the 

portion of flour that Father keeps as payment. 

Between the mill and the farm, we work hard from 

dawn to dusk. Father says that’s the price of freedom. 

Me, I count myself lucky that even if I wasn’t born 

free, I am free now. Out here in the frontier a man 

can be whoever he sets his mind to be. My friend Pete 

Harkness was born in the States—Minnesota, to be 

exact—and he never lets me forget it. 

“You’ll never be president,” Pete is fond of 

telling me. 

He’s referring to the fact that the United States 

Constitution requires that presidents be born on 

American soil—as though Pete, who had to repeat 

tenth grade, thinks that being born here makes him 

better fit for the job than I am. Pete and I are in the 

same grade now, but he’s sixteen and reminds me 

every chance he gets that he’s a year older than I am. 

Mam says not to mind him, that Pete hasn’t had the 

advantage of being raised in a God-fearing family the 

way I have, at least not since his mother died three 

years ago and his father took up with Mrs. Bell. I have 

never heard Mam gossip about Mrs. Bell the way 

some people do, but I can tell from the way Mam’s 

lips go tight at the mention of her name that she 

disapproves of her. 

This Sunday past, you could say fate took me by 

the hand. I was walking my brothers and sister the 

four miles from our property to Sunday school at the 

Presbyterian church in Nooksack when halfway there 

we saw smoke rising above the trees. That in itself 

wasn’t unusual—on a February morning, you’d be 

worried if you didn’t see smoke rising from a chimney. 

But this was different: thick and black. 

“That’s coming from Mr. Bell’s cabin,” said John. 

The Mr. Bell he was referring to was James Bell, an 

old-timer who ran a store out of his cabin, selling a 

few supplies to get by. He was also the lawful husband 

8 9


of the very same Mrs. Bell who is currently living 

under the roof of my friend Pete’s father. 

We hurried around the bend in the trail ahead to 

see what was the cause of the smoke. Flames were 

leaping above the trees by the time we started down 

the narrow path through a thicket of dogwood that 

led from the trail to the cabin. When we got to the 

clearing, the wood shack was going up like tinder. 

Fire was licking out of the windows of the front room, 

where Mr. Bell kept his dry goods for sale. If I’d let 

him, John—who is thirteen and a know-it-all—would 

have rushed right up to it. Will, a year younger than 

John and pretty much John’s shadow, would have been 

right behind him. 

“Mr. Bell?” I called from a safe distance, holding 

John and Will back. 

There was no answer, just the loud crack of 

blistering wood. I thought about running to the 

closest farmstead for help, the Breckenridges’, but it 

would have been a good twenty minutes to get there, 

and another twenty back. 

I tried again. “Mr. Bell!” 

“He can’t hear you!” said John. 

I had to admit John was right. The bursting and 

crackling of the fire was making too much noise. There 

was nothing to do but inch up and have a look inside 

that inferno. 

“You stay here with Annie,” I told Will. Annie is 

only nine, and I could see her eyes were wide with 

fright. 

John and I crept alongside the cabin toward 

the back, where the flames hadn’t caught hold yet, 

shielding ourselves from the heat. We peered through 

a window and saw Mr. Bell lying face down on the 

floor between the storeroom and the kitchen at the 

rear. A fog of smoke was quickly filling the space 

above him. 

“We got to get him out!” declared John. 

“Let’s hope he’s got a back door,” I yelled over the 

din, because it was obvious we were not going through 

the front way. 

We ran to the rear of the cabin and were relieved 

to see that there was a way into his kitchen. When we 

pushed open the door, smoke came rushing out at us. 

It stung our eyes and blinded us, but after a moment it 

cleared enough for us to see Mr. Bell lying there. 

“Mr. Bell!” I called again, but he wasn’t budging. 

The fire was traveling fast from the front room. We 

had to get him out of there. 

“Hold your breath!” I shouted to John. 

The two of us dashed inside. I suppose it paid to 

be brothers that day, because without having to plan 

it, we each grabbed hold of one of Mr. Bell’s arms and 

dragged him out of there, like his limbs were branches 

on a log we were lugging to reinforce our dam. He was 

heavy enough that even with two of us we made slow 

10 11


progress toward the back door. A loud bang from the 

front room sent the taste of fear up from my stomach 

into my throat. I looked up to see burning timbers 

falling, and daylight where the roof used to be. I 

glanced at John. If he was as scared as I was, he didn’t 

let it show. He just kept hauling Mr. Bell toward the 

door. I did what he did. Pretty soon we had Mr. Bell 

out on the grass and we were filling our lungs with 

good air. 

John was a sight—his face streaked with grime, 

his Sunday clothes covered in ash and soot—and I 

reckon I was, too. My first thought was that Mam 

would have our hides for ruining our Sunday best. But 

that thought was chased from my head when I looked 

down at Mr. Bell. He still hadn’t moved, and at a 

glance I saw the reason why—the back of his head was 

nothing but a bloody mess. John had gone pale. Annie 

and Will stood staring. Me, I felt my stomach rising. 

I’d chopped the head off many a chicken and watched 

the blood spurt, but this was different. 

“What happened to him?” Annie asked, her voice 

high and frightened. 

“Is he dead?” asked Will. 

I knelt down and rolled him over. His eyes were 

wide open. His skin was gray against the white of 

his beard, and I could count what teeth he had left 

through his gaping mouth. The first thought that came 

into my head was, 

“We got to fetch Doctor Thompson.” 

“What the hell for?” John huffed. “Can’t you see 

he’s a goner?!” 

“Don’t be cursing in front of Annie,” I told him. 

“He looks surprised,” she said. 

“You’d be surprised, too, if your head got bashed 

in,” said John. 

“How do you reckon it happened?” asked Will. 

The three of them were looking down at Mr. Bell 

with unseemly curiosity, considering how recently his 

spirit had departed this world. I found a horse blanket 

on the woodpile and threw it over him. 

“It’s not for us to say,” I told them. “We need to 

fetch the sheriff.” 

12 13


Chapter Two 

Mr. Bell’s cabin was a couple of miles from 

Nooksack. John and I argued about which one of us 

should go for Sheriff Leckie to tell him about the 

violent end that had befallen Mr. Bell, and which one 

should stay with Annie, who had begun to blub and 

complain at the prospect of being left behind with a 

dead body. 

“Stop crying,” John told her. “Nobody even liked 

the old coot.” 

“Leave her be,” I said. 

Annie buried her head in my chest, adding tears 

and snot to the streaks of grime on my jacket—and 

settling which one of us would be dispatched for 

the sheriff to deliver the biggest news that had ever 

happened in the Nooksack Valley. 

“All right, you go,” I told John. “Take Will with 

you. And run.” 

“I know to run!” John snarled back, needing the last 

word just like always. 

The four of us walked together down the path 

to the trail. Annie and I watched our brothers take 

off at top speed toward town until they were out of 

sight. Now that she was a sufficient distance from the 

burning cabin—and from the body lying under the 

blanket—Annie calmed down. 

“We should go home,” she said. “We should tell 

Father what happened.” 

Mam is expecting a new baby any minute, and 

Father had stayed home from church to help mind 

Isabel, who’s three. Father isn’t big on churchgoing 

and preachers, anyway. He says he doesn’t need a 

middleman between him and the Almighty. He’s 

independent minded, and that’s what attracted him 

to living in America in the first place. Mam’s the one 

who makes us kids go to Sunday school. And she 

says that since we made the move to the Washington 

Territory, Father’s taken up a little too much frontier 

spirit for his own good. 

“We should wait here,” I told Annie. “We found 

the body. We’re witnesses. Sheriff Leckie’s going to 

want to talk to us.” 

“John can tell him as good as you can.” 

So now my little sister was arguing with me, too. I 

was beginning to think I did not command adequate 

respect from my juniors. 

“You stay here,” I said, indicating a tree stump 

where she could sit down. 

“Where are you going?” 

14 15


“To investigate.” 

“Investigate what?” 

“To investigate what happened to poor Mr. Bell.” 

“John says nobody liked him.” 

“Just because a man isn’t liked doesn’t mean he 

deserved to die.” 

People say Mr. Bell was strange in the head, 

starting with the fact that he chose for some reason 

to build his shack on the edge of a swamp instead of 

on decent farmland. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Bell took 

their son, Jimmy, and left him. That, and because she’s 

half the old man’s age. 

“Why would he deserve to die?” 

“I just said he didn’t!” 

“You made it sound like somebody thought he did.” 

“Just sit there!” I ordered, and walked away into 

the dogwood patch before she could squabble any 

further. 

When I came out into the clearing, the heat from 

the cabin was enough to singe my hair. I gave the 

building a wide berth as I walked around it. The 

flames had pretty much eaten up the cabin inside and 

out and were making the leap to an open shed out 

back. I thought briefly about trying to save a wagon 

that was parked inside that shed, but the fire was 

moving too fast and with too much fury. As I watched 

the roof of the shed fall into the wagon’s bed, it 

dawned on me: Where was Mr. Bell’s horse? 

“Get away from there!” 

I spun around to see Mr. Osterman standing where 

the path opens from the dogwood into the clearing, 

motioning at me with his arm. Annie was standing 

beside him. Bill Osterman is the telegraph man for 

Nooksack. He is often to be seen riding the trail, 

checking the telegraph lines that follow it. He’s barely 

thirty, but he’s much respected hereabouts, for it’s the 

telegraph that keeps us settlers connected with the 

states back east, and California to the south. I’ve often 

thought that one day I would like to be a telegraph 

man, like him, living in a nice house in town and not 

having to wake up with the cows. 

“Come away from there, boy!” he yelled. “You’ll be 

burnt as well as roasted!” 

I obeyed him. 

“We found Mr. Bell!” I told him, coming toward 

him. To my surprise, my voice cracked as I said it and 

my throat felt tight—as if any minute I might cry 

like a girl. I turned away from him while I got hold of 

myself, pointing to the blanket-covered body lying in 

the grass. “He’s there.” 

Mr. Osterman went over and raised the blanket 

only long enough to take in the situation before 

dropping it and backing away. He’s a smart dresser 

compared to the farm men—maybe he didn’t want to 

get his nice clothes dirty. 

“You found him like this?” he asked. His face 

16 17


looked grim. 

“He was inside the cabin. My brother John and I 

pulled him out.” 

“And who might you be?” 

“George Gillies, sir.” 

He glanced over at Annie. 

“You Peter Gillies’s kids?” 

“Yes, sir. We were on our way to church. John and 

Will went ahead to fetch Sheriff Leckie.” 

He nodded. Then, “Church will still be there next 

Sunday. You should take your sister on home now, son. 

This isn’t a sight for a little girl.” 

Part of me knew he was right, but a bigger part of 

me wanted to stay put. I told him, “I have to wait for 

my brothers.” 

“I’ll wait here for them to come back with the 

sheriff, and I’ll send them home after you.” 

“I’d prefer to wait, if you don’t mind.” 

I don’t know where I found the gumption. Mr. 

Osterman stared at me in surprise for a long moment. 

I thought he was angry, but then he let out a laugh. 

“Well, Master Gillies, I can see you are a man who 

knows his own mind.” Then he became serious again. 

“Take your sister out by the trail, George. Give me a 

holler when you see the sheriff coming.” 

I knew better than to argue with him any further. 

But I believed it was my duty to inform him, “His 

horse is gone.” 

Mr. Osterman looked about Mr. Bell’s narrow strip 

of land, at the small paddock squeezed between the 

dogwood and the swamp. 

“So it is. Likely stolen by whoever did this to him,” 

he said. 

“You think somebody killed him?” He didn’t seem 

to hear me. 

“Go on now,” he said. “Look after your sister.” 

Annie and I waited by the trail like Mr. Osterman 

said. I kept my eyes fixed on the point where the trail 

disappeared into the woods ahead for the first sign of 

the sheriff. It was a mild day. The sun shone warm on 

my head. As the roar of the fire simmered down to the 

odd crackle, you could almost forget that something 

horrible had happened. But a picture of Mr. Bell’s 

smashed-in head flashed into my mind. 

Whoever did this to him, Mr. Osterman had said. 

Was he saying somebody had murdered Mr. Bell? If 

that was the case, the murderer could not be far away. 

It gave me the shivers just thinking about it, and made 

me keep a closer eye on Annie. 

Sheriff Leckie arrived on horseback a half hour 

later, without John and Will. The boys were following 

on foot. He had with him Bill Moultray, who runs 

the general store and livery stable at The Crossing, 

a shallow point in the Nooksack River where the 

Harkness ferry carries folks across. In a way, Mr. 

18 19


Bell was in competition with Mr. Moultray, selling 

provisions to the settlers, but Mr. Bell was like fly 

speck compared to Mr. Moultray, whose business 

is much bigger—supplying freight teams on the 

Whatcom Trail, the old gold rush route from the 

fifties that leads from the Washington Territory 

up to the Fraser River on the Canadian side of the 

International Border. Mr. Moultray is a big bug 

hereabouts, not just because he’s rich, but also because 

he’s been to Olympia many times, hobnobbing with 

the governor and the like. 

When I saw the pair of them coming, I ran to fetch 

Mr. Osterman as he had bid me to do. I found him 

using a long stick to pick through the hot embers that 

were pretty near all that was left of Mr. Bell’s cabin. 

“It’s the sheriff!” I called. 

He swung around to me fast as could be with a 

startled look on his face. 

“Didn’t your pa ever teach you not to sneak up on a 

person?” he said. 

By the time I got done apologizing and the two of 

us had walked back through the thicket to the trail, 

the sheriff and Mr. Moultray were pulling up their 

horses. Mr. Moultray is my father’s age, not young 

and handsome like Mr. Osterman, but he dresses 

even finer—never to be seen without his gold watch 

hanging from his waistcoat. Beside Mr. Moultray and 

Mr. Osterman, Sheriff Leckie looked like a character 

out of the Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show in his dusty 

hat and long coat. He talks as slow as he moves, as 

though he’s worn out from a life spent in the saddle, 

facing down outlaws and Indians. 

“What have we got, Bill?” asked Sheriff Leckie, 

climbing down from his horse. 

“Looks like somebody fired a shotgun into Jim 

Bell’s head,” replied Mr. Osterman. 

Shot! Mr. Moultray looked as shocked as I was. 

“Who would do such a thing to a harmless old 

man?” he asked, dismounting. 

“I’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Osterman. “I got a bad 

feeling I may have put Jim Bell in harm’s way.” 

The sheriff looked up from where he and Mr. 

Moultray were tying their horses off to nearby trees. 

His eyes went narrow. 

“Why would you say that?” the sheriff asked. 

Mr. Osterman glanced over at Annie and me with 

the same look my father gets when he wants to say 

something to Mam that isn’t for our ears. Sheriff 

Leckie looked at us, too. 

“You the other Gillies kids?” 

“Yes, sir,” I said. 

“You’re the one who found the body?” 

I’ll admit I puffed up with pride to have the sheriff 

of Whatcom County ask me such a question. 

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I am.” 

Sheriff Leckie turned to Mr. Osterman. 

20 21


“Let’s see what we got.” 

The remains of the cabin were smoldering now and 

the smoke stung my eyes as we stood in the clearing. 

Sheriff Leckie, Mr. Osterman, and Mr. Moultray 

rolled Mr. Bell’s body over to get a look at his bashedin 

head. They knelt there for a long time in the grass, 

talking amongst themselves. They made Annie and 

me keep our distance, so it was hard to make out what 

they were saying, but I caught bits and pieces. 

“… crazy old fool wouldn’t keep a gun to 

defend himself …” 

“… too trusting … always taking in strays …” 

It was curious the way they blamed Mr. Bell for 

getting himself murdered. Still, I knew what they were 

saying. Many a time when we were passing by Mr. 

Bell’s cabin on the way to or from school, the old man 

would be waiting out on the trail to offer us children a 

sweet or a drink of water. But there were things about 

him—his yellow teeth and sour breath, the smell of 

his unwashed clothes, the way he laughed like he had 

some secret joke—that made me make excuses and get 

my brothers and sister away as fast as I could. 

I listened some more. 

“… got him in the back of the head …” 

“… must have turned his back to go for 

something …” 

“… or just caught unawares …” 

Then, from Mr. Osterman, “You think the Indian 

could have done this?” 

An Indian! The thought of an Indian murdering 

a white settler was enough to send a tremor through 

every one of us standing in that clearing. If the 

Indians thought they could get away with killing 

one of us, they were just as liable to get the notion of 

starting an all-out war, aimed at driving every man, 

woman and child out of our homes. 

When we crossed the prairie by wagon train six 

years ago, the old-timers told us hair-raising tales 

about how the savages were known to attack the 

trains and wipe out whole families—innocent people 

who wanted nothing more than to create new homes 

for themselves out of the wilderness. Settlers have 

only been in these parts for barely longer than I’ve 

been alive, and the Indians outnumber us by a long 

shot. Before we arrived, all they did was fish and 

hunt. That left a lot of land unspoken for, and in 

the past twenty years lumbermen and miners and 

homesteaders have been pleased to claim that land 

as their own. Wouldn’t you know that the Indians 

would then turn around and complain that the 

territory belongs to them and we’ve got no business 

being here, even though they weren’t using the land 

for anything much to speak of. 

It’s put into folks’ heads from the cradle that if a 

white man lets an Indian get the upper hand, the next 

thing you know your scalp is as likely as not to be 

22 23


hanging off of his belt. We settlers are ever mindful of 

the fact that barely eight years ago Crazy Horse and 

his warriors massacred General Custer and his men at 

the Little Big Horn River, due east of us in Montana. 

The worry that even the friendly Indians might turn 

against us is enough to make every homesteader bolt 

the door at night and sleep with his rifle and an ax 

beside his bed, including my father. If an Indian killed 

Mr. Bell, none of us could sleep easy. 

John and Will arrived back, winded from running 

the whole distance. “What’s going on?” John asked, 

annoyed that he was missing out on something. 

“They think an Indian might have done it,” I 

told him. 

“What Indian?” 

“Just pay attention and maybe you’ll find out.” 

He was irking me, making me miss out on 

important details. The blanket was back over Mr. Bell’s 

body now, and the men were standing to continue 

their discussion, making it easier to hear them. 

“I put out the word that I was looking for 

somebody to fix poles for me, and this morning Louie 

Sam shows up,” Mr. Osterman was saying. “I could 

tell he was a bad type the minute I laid eyes on him, 

but I started walking the line with him down this way, 

pointing out what needed repairing. He was too slowwitted 

to catch on to what I was trying to get across 

to him. I’ll tell you, he was hot-headed enough to 

send smoke signals through his ears when I told him I 

couldn’t use him and sent him away.” 

“And this was just this morning?” 

“That’s correct, Sheriff. He came by the telegraph 

office early for a Sunday, maybe nine o’clock.” 

The sheriff checked his pocket watch. 

“It’s now a quarter past eleven.” 

“The timing’s right. I left him on the trail not far 

from here a little more than an hour ago. I kept on 

going down the line. I figured Louie Sam headed back 

into town. But maybe he didn’t. Maybe he found Jim 

Bell’s place.” 

“I know Louie Sam.” It was Bill Moultray talking 

now. “He’s a Sumas, from the Canadian side. And 

I know his old man, too. They call him Mesatche 

Jack Sam.” 

“ ‘Mean,’” said Sheriff Leckie, translating from 

Chinook, the trade jargon used by the various Indian 

bands in this area to make themselves understood to 

each other, and to us whites. 

“You got it. Mean Jack’s in jail up in New 

Westminster for murder.” 

This gave all three of them pause, until Mr. 

Osterman stated what we were all thinking: “The 

apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” 

If the father was a murdering Indian, so was the son 

likely to be. We had ourselves a suspect in the murder 

of Mr. James Bell, and his name was Louie Sam. 

24 25


Chapter Three 

John and I agreed that we should send Annie 

home with Will, and that the two of us should stay at 

Mr. Bell’s place in case the sheriff had more questions 

for us. But the men seemed to forget we were there. 

They found long sticks and poked at the charred 

remains of the cabin, which were still too hot to 

touch. Mr. Osterman used the end of his stick to pick 

up a blackened jug from what was left of Mr. Bell’s 

merchandise. 

“My bet is Jim Bell caught that Indian helping 

himself to his goods,” he said. 

“Hard to tell,” replied Sheriff Leckie, flipping 

through some tin cans that had exploded in the heat. 

“Who’s to say what’s missing?” 

“I found something!” called Mr. Moultray from the 

kitchen end of the ruins. 

We all turned to see Mr. Moultray using his thick 

boots to kick a fire-warped metal box out of the ashes. 

It sprang open, spilling a fortune in gold coins onto the 

grass! The sheriff let a whistle out between his teeth. 

“It don’t look like no robbery to me,” he said. 

Mr. Osterman knelt down to count the coins, but 

the first one burned him when he tried to pick it up. 

“Goddamit!” he blasphemed, blowing on his fingers. 

“There must be five hundred dollars there,” said 

the sheriff. 

“Louie Sam missed out on the big prize,” remarked 

Mr. Moultray. 

“But he might have taken Mr. Bell’s horse,” I said. 

The men turned to me and John. They seemed 

surprised to find us still there. The sheriff rubbed 

his chin. 

“Nobody’s seen his horse this morning?” he asked. 

“No, sir,” I replied. “It was gone when we got here.” 

“If that Indian’s on horseback, he could be ten 

miles away by now,” said Mr. Moultray. “All the way to 

the border. Assuming he’s heading for his tribe on the 

Canadian side.” 

“So he’s a horse thief as well as a murderer,” was all 

that Mr. Osterman had to add. 

But just after noon, Robert Breckenridge, a 

neighbor from a couple of miles away, arrived leading 

a stray he said had turned up on his land and which 

he recognized as belonging to Mr. Bell. He had come 

by only meaning to return the horse, and was shocked 

by the sight of the cabin—shocked still further when 

the men told him what had befallen Mr. Bell. Mr. 

26 27


Breckenridge related how just the day before he had 

seen a lone Indian lurking around near his spread, 

carrying a rifle, who claimed when challenged that 

he was hunting game. The men agreed that it stood 

to reason that the Indian Mr. Breckenridge saw could 

well have been Louie Sam, and that the rifle he was 

carrying was very likely the murder weapon. 

Next thing you know Father arrived on Mae, our 

mare, telling John and me to go home. He’d heard 

enough from Will and Annie to make him come 

fetch us. I think he mostly came out of curiosity, 

though, because a minute later he was caught up in 

the mystery as Sheriff Leckie and Mr. Moultray told 

the whole story all over again. On hearing it a second 

time—with Mr. Breckenridge’s additions—it was 

plain as day that Louie Sam was the culprit, even if 

he could no longer be called a horse thief. Murdering 

an innocent white man in cold blood was just like 

something a bad Indian would do. 

At that point, Mr. Osterman gave a holler. He had 

been checking around Mr. Bell’s property and had 

found tracks leading into the swamp. Sheriff Leckie 

told us all to stand back while he took a look, but even 

at a distance I could make out some faint dents in the 

grass that could easily have been made by moccasins. 

At the place where the footprints reached the swamp 

there were trampled rushes—as though a body had 

burst through them at a run. 

“Louie Sam must have escaped this way,” declared 

Mr. Osterman. 

“Now hold on,” said Sheriff Leckie. “A deer could 

have made this track as well as an Indian.” 

“But Sheriff,” I blurted, “that renegade could be 

getting away!” 

Father turned toward me, reminded of my presence. 

“I thought I told you to go home.” 

“Don’t be cross with the boy, Mr. Gillies,” said Mr. 

Osterman. “George has been a real help today.” 

“So have I!” piped up John. 

“Quiet, both of you,” said Father, “or I’ll send you 

on your way right now.” Which John and I took to 

understand that we would be allowed to stay as long 

as we remembered our place. 

Sheriff Leckie had been quietly thinking. 

“That Indian has had a couple of hours to clear 

out of here. He’ll be headed north. Once he’s crossed 

the border, it’s up to the Canadians what they do 

with him.” 

That made Mr. Breckenridge, a small man who 

makes up with spitfire what he lacks in height and 

breadth, hot under the collar. 

“Jim Bell is one of us!” he said. “He’s a Nooksack 

Valley man, and that Indian ought to pay for what he 

done in the Nooksack Valley!” 

“I won’t argue that with you, Bob,” the sheriff 

replied, his words slow as molasses. “But we’ve got our 

28 29


laws and the Canadians have got theirs.” 

“If we start north now, we can catch him before 

he leaves the Territory,” said Mr. Osterman. “If we let 

him get cross the border, there’s no saying whether the 

Canadians will hand him over.” 

Mr. Breckenridge agreed. “You got to stop that 

savage before he gets away, Sheriff.” 

The sheriff pulled at his chin. “I suppose I best 

get started.” 

“I’ll come with you,” said Mr. Breckenridge. “You 

shouldn’t face that red-skinned dog alone.” 

It was agreed that Mr. Breckenridge would go 

with Sheriff Leckie. The rest of us stayed behind to 

find out where the trail into the swamp led, with Mr. 

Osterman in the lead. It was hard going, trying to 

find bits of solid ground to set our boots upon. After 

five minutes my feet were wet and cold, but I wasn’t 

about to complain about it for fear of looking like I 

couldn’t keep up with the men. I glanced behind me 

to John to try to make out whether he was in the same 

discomfort as me. His pig-headed look told me that 

he was. 

It was clever of that Indian to escape through the 

swamp, which swallowed up his footprints the same 

way it tried to swallow our boots. But Mr. Osterman 

did a good job of reading what signs as there were, 

finding a broken branch here, and a handkerchief 

stuck to a bramble there. We came across some cans 

of beans and bully beef that must have come from 

Mr. Bell’s store, as though Louie Sam in his haste 

had dropped them. Strangest of all was an old pair of 

suspenders we found caught in some brambles. As we 

plunged onward, the men began to talk about what 

was on everyone’s mind. 

“Once the Nooksack hear about this, there’s bound 

to be more trouble,” said Mr. Moultray. 

The Nooksack is the name of the local Indians 

on our side of the border, from which the river and 

our town took their names. On the Canadian side, 

it’s the Sumas tribe. To hear the Indians tell it, they 

were all one big happy family until the International 

Border cut right through their hunting grounds 

twenty-five years ago, dividing them up. According 

to Mr. Breckenridge, who Father says considers 

himself to be an expert on just about everything, they 

still get together for wild heathen shindigs they call 

potlatches. Even though Louie Sam was a Sumas 

from the Canadian side, the worry was that he would 

go boasting to his cousins on the American side 

that he killed a white man. The Nooksack have been 

rumbling for years about this being their land. If they 

got the notion that getting rid of us settlers was as 

simple as shooting us like dogs, we could wind up 

with a full-scale uprising on our hands—just like what 

happened in Oregon and the Dakotas until the U.S. 

Army showed those Indians who was boss. The trouble 

30 31


was, the U.S. Army was nowhere in sight, the nearest 

outpost being three hundred miles south of us at Fort 

Walla Walla. The Indians of the Nooksack Valley 

knew we were pretty much defenseless, and that they 

had us outnumbered. 

“We didn’t have this kind of trouble when Bill 

Hampton was alive,” Father remarked. 

Mr. Hampton was the ferryman at The Crossing 

before he drowned and my friend Pete’s father, Dave 

Harkness, took over. “Bill had a knack for talking to 

the Nooksack. They listened to him.” 

Mr. Osterman let out a hard laugh, obviously not 

sharing Father’s good opinion of Mr. Hampton. 

“That’s because he was shacked up with one of their 

women and had himself a couple of Indian kids.” He 

was talking about Agnes, Mr. Hampton’s Indian wife, 

who lives near us on Sumas Creek with her two halfbreed 

sons. He added, “We got to make an example of 

Louie Sam before the Nooksack go getting ideas.” 

“No question about that,” Father agreed. 

“Let’s see what the sheriff has to say when he gets 

back,” Mr. Moultray told them. 

He was a natural leader, Mr. Moultray—cool and 

always thinking. He was the one leading the talk in 

our corner of the Washington Territory about pressing 

the Union to make us a full state with our own laws, 

and not just a territory ruled by the president from 

Washington, D.C. 

We reached a big old log that was sticking up out 

of the swamp at an angle and climbed up on it. On 

the other side of it, we could see sunken footprints 

where Louie Sam had made a long jump off the log 

into the bog. From there the bush got thicker and 

the trail petered out. The men decided that there was 

no point continuing. If Louie Sam was going to be 

caught, it was up to the sheriff to do it. 

We returned to Mr. Bell’s burned-out cabin. The 

ruins were cooler now. It was easier to pick through 

the remains, but there was nothing much left. It 

seemed Mr. Bell didn’t own much to speak of, even 

before the fire turned it all to ash. Nothing but the five 

hundred dollars in gold he had in that strong box. 

“I’ll keep it in the safe at my store until it’s decided 

what’s to be done with it,” volunteered Mr. Moultray. 

“What about the body?” asked Father. 

“May as well bring him back to my place,” said Mr. 

Moultray. “He’ll keep in my shed until he’s buried. His 

horse can stay in my stable until somebody decides 

who gets him.” 

Father remarked, “I suppose somebody needs to tell 

Mrs. Bell what happened.” 

The men all fell silent at that. Nobody was stepping 

up to volunteer for that particular detail. The situation 

was complicated, what with Mrs. Bell having up and 

left Mr. Bell a year ago to go live with Pete’s pa. 

32 33


Father remembered something about Mr. Osterman. 

“Your wife Maggie is Dave Harkness’s sister, 

isn’t she?” 

“That she is,” he replied. 

Mr. Moultray saw what Father was driving at and 

finished his thought. 

“That’s practically family,” he said to Mr. Osterman. 

“It’s only fitting that you should be the one to tell 

Mrs. Bell.” He added by way of lessening the weight 

of the duty, “I don’t reckon she’ll be too sorrowful.” 

There was another long silence. From the way 

Father glanced at John and me, I got the feeling that 

more would have been said on the matter if we boys 

had not been present. 

Chapter Four 

It turned out that Sheriff Leckie and Robert 

Breckenridge didn’t make it to Canada on Sunday 

afternoon. They got stopped by the discovery of a new 

witness—who turned out to be none other than Pete 

Harkness. Outside the schoolhouse at lunchtime on 

Monday, I got the full story from Pete. 

“I was coming back from Lynden—” 

“What were you doing way over there?” I asked 

him. Lynden is a good five miles west of Nooksack. 

“I was running an errand for my pa. Stop 

interrupting!” 

Pete likes to hear himself talk. He may not be the 

smartest boy in school, but I know from my little 

sister Annie that all the girls in the classroom—from 

the first grade on up—think he’s handsome with 

his blue eyes and wavy hair. He’s tall and broadshouldered, 

and has a way of believing that his good 

looks mean he’s always right. 

“So I was heading along the road from Lynden 

back home to The Crossing,” he continued, “when I 

34 35


saw Louie Sam coming toward me, walking in the 

other direction. Let me tell you, the look on that 

Indian’s face struck me with terror—so dark was it and 

filled with evil. There was murder in his eyes.” 

“Did you see the rifle that he used to kill Mr. Bell?” 

“Damn right, I did! Of course, I didn’t know at the 

time that he used it to murder Mr. Bell.” 

Tom Breckenridge came over and joined us. 

“Pete saw Louie Sam yesterday,” I told him, 

“walking along the Lynden road.” 

“If I’d seen him,” Tom replied, “he wouldn’t be 

walking no more.” 

He spit in the dirt. Tom is Pete’s age, but small and 

wiry like his father. And—like his father—Tom is full 

of tough talk trying to make up for his size. Ignoring 

his bluster, I turned my attention back to Pete. 

“So what happened next?” 

“When I got to The Crossing, Uncle Bill was there, 

telling Pa that Mr. Bell was dead,” Pete said. 

“How did Mrs. Bell take the news?” I asked. 

“Why should I care?” proclaimed Pete. 

I should have known better than to ask. Pete has no 

fondness for his more-or-less stepmother, Mrs. Bell, 

nor for her son Jimmy, who’s living under Pete’s roof 

now like they’re supposed to be brothers. 

“Anyway,” he went on, “when I told Pa about seeing 

the evil look on that redskin, he said that I had to 

tell Sheriff Leckie what I saw right away. He even 

let me saddle up Star. I headed for the sheriff ’s office 

in Nooksack at a gallop, and got there just in time— 

because the sheriff and your pa,” he said, nodding to 

Tom, “were just about to set off north in search of 

Louie Sam.” 

“And the whole time, Louie Sam was heading west, 

on the Lynden road!” 

“Exactly. If it hadn’t been for me coming across 

him like that, they would have headed off on a wild 

goose chase to end all. As it was, Louie Sam managed 

to hide himself among a bunch of Nooksack in a camp 

they got near Lynden.” 

“So his tillicums took him in,” I remarked. 

That’s more Chinook lingo: tillicum means friend. 

“Sheriff Leckie tried to talk their chief into 

handing him over, but the chief said they hadn’t 

seen him.” 

“Lying Indians!” declared Tom. 

“Is there another kind?” replied Pete. “The sheriff 

said the chief had twenty or more braves with him, 

so there was nothing he could do but wait and hope 

that Louie Sam might make a break for it. Finally, he 

reckoned there was no point in waiting any longer. 

That Indian could have slipped away into the forest 

any time he wanted.” 

“Heading for his people north of the border,” I 

ventured to guess. 

“That’s what the sheriff thinks,” said Pete. “He 

36 37


and Tom’s pa headed up the trail for Canada this 

morning.” 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Tom. 

Pete’s account of seeing Louie Sam clinched it. 

If anybody had had doubts about that Indian’s guilt 

before, it was impossible to deny it now. The way 

everybody had it figured, Louie Sam must have come 

across Mr. Bell’s cabin shortly after his falling out 

with Mr. Osterman and decided to help himself to 

the supplies within. Given the temper on that Indian, 

it’s no stretch to imagine that the slightest complaint 

on the matter from Mr. Bell would have sent him on 

the rampage. So he waited until Mr. Bell’s back was 

turned and he let him have it. But, on the other hand, 

people said Mr. Bell would share a meal with anybody 

passing by, so why would he have denied a few cans 

of beans to an Indian who was holding a rifle? Why 

would he have risked his life for that? I voiced all of 

this to Pete. 

“You think too much,” was his reply. “Louie Sam 

killed Mr. Bell. That’s all you got to know.” 

“How’s Jimmy?” I asked. 

“How should I know?” Pete snapped. 

“It’s his pa that’s dead,” I said. 

Jimmy Bell is my brother John’s age and I don’t 

know him well, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for 

him—especially since it mustn’t be easy for him, with 

his mother taking him away from his father to go live 

with the Harknesses. 

“Jimmy hated his pa,” replied Pete. 

“Why?” 

“Why do you ask so many stupid questions, George 

Gillies?” 

With that, Pete went off to join a ball game a few 

of the boys had started up in the field behind the 

school. My brother John was one of those boys, and so 

was Jimmy Bell. Jimmy was a quiet type, plump and 

big for his age—not really one to stand out at sports 

or in school. I watched him take his turn stepping up 

to bat, swinging, missing an easy ball—cursing. If he 

was sad about his pa it didn’t show. So maybe Pete 

was right. Maybe he did hate his father—or at least 

had no warm feelings for him. But then I thought, 

maybe Jimmy was feeling more angry than sad about 

what happened. I guessed that I might feel that way, 

too, if it was my father who had been murdered in 

cold blood. 

Mr. Breckenridge came back from Canada that 

very afternoon. We heard this news from our neighbor, 

Mr. Pratt, who came to our mill late in the day. He 

heard it from Mr. Hopkins who works at the new 

hotel in town—who had been at The Crossing when 

Mr. Breckenridge arrived at Bill Moultray’s store with 

the tale of his journey. News travels up and down the 

38 39


valley so fast, it’s almost like the telegraph line. 

“The sheriff and Bob Breckenridge went to see 

the Canadian justice of the peace in Sumas, a Mr. 

Campbell,” said Mr. Pratt, who’s a natural storyteller 

and plays the fiddle when there’s a dance in town. 

Like Father, he’s a Scot by birth. “The justice listened 

to all the evidence Sheriff Leckie presented and 

agreed that Louie Sam was the likely culprit. It 

turns out that Justice Campbell’s the one who put 

Louie Sam’s old man in jail for murder, so it came as 

no surprise to him that the son had followed in his 

father’s footsteps.” 

“What’s he planning to do about it?” asked Father 

as he poured a sack of Mr. Pratt’s wheat into the 

hopper, getting ready to grind it. 

“He issued a warrant for Louie Sam’s arrest. But, 

the way Bob tells it, the sheriff didn’t altogether trust 

this Campbell fellow. The Canadians have different 

ways, different laws. So the sheriff talked Campbell 

into letting him ride with him to take Louie Sam into 

custody, to make sure justice is served. Bob and the 

sheriff parted ways at that point, and Bob came back 

here to spread the word.” 

“And this Justice Campbell expects the Sumas to 

hand Louie Sam over just like that? Because he has 

a warrant?” Father’s eyebrow was cocked, meaning he 

thought this was a daft notion. 

“Aye, that’s the question, Peter,” replied Mr. Pratt, 

with his own knowing look. “That’s the question.” 

Before leaving, Mr. Pratt also told us that plans 

had been made for Mr. Bell’s funeral. Those who were 

interested in paying their respects were to meet at the 

Hausers’ cabin on Wednesday. Judging by the mood in 

the valley, Mr. Pratt expected to see every man in the 

district there, ready to show the local Indians by force 

of numbers that they would not let the murder of a 

white man go unnoticed, or unpunished. 

40 41


Chapter Five 

On Wednesday morning, the day of Mr. Bell’s 

funeral, my mother and father were arguing. There 

were no raised voices—that isn’t Mam’s way. But 

when she is displeased, you know it. I could tell just 

by looking at her when Father and I came in from 

milking that something was eating at her. Mam was 

short-tempered as she tried dishing up breakfast, 

hampered by the big roundness of her middle—that 

out of delicacy we boys were not supposed to mention. 

Finally, Father told Mam to sit down and let Annie 

do the serving. In that, she obeyed him. But her 

mouth was still tight as a drum as she helped Isabel 

with her porridge. 

“Anna, it’s the man’s funeral,” Father said out of 

the blue, as though picking up on a discussion he and 

Mam had been having earlier. 

“I have no argument with you going to show Mr. 

Bell his due. It’s this foolish talk I can’t abide.” 

I was curious about what talk she was referring to. 

“You do not appreciate the seriousness of the 

matter,” replied Father, using his serious voice to prove 

the point. 

“I get along just fine with the Indians,” Mam said. 

“When do you ever have business with the 

Indians?” 

“Agnes Hampton often brings me berries in 

exchange for a few eggs. Or one of her boys will bring 

me a hare, or a brace of quail.” 

“That squaw was never Mrs. Hampton,” Father 

replied. 

From the way he said it, there was a meaning 

behind the words that he did not intend for us 

children to grasp. But being more experienced in the 

world than my brothers and sisters, I knew what he 

was getting at—that the Hamptons had never been 

properly married. Mam was silenced for a moment by 

that remark, though not for long. 

“It seems some folks are more easily forgiven on 

that account than others.” 

Now she was talking about Pete’s father and Mrs. 

Bell, who also lived as man and wife without the 

benefit of a preacher. 

Father came back with, “There’s sinning, and then 

there’s sinning.” 

I wasn’t at all sure what Father meant by that, but 

Mam seemed to understand him just fine. 

“It’s not those boys’ fault they were born halfbreeds,” 

she said. “And just because there’s one bad 

42 43


Indian, that doesn’t mean you men have cause to tar 

all the rest of them with the same brush.” 

At that, Father put his foot down. 

“I’ll thank you to leave men’s business to the men. 

This conversation is hereby over.” 

Mam’s mouth was tighter than ever. 

I caught up with Father as he was heading from 

our cabin down to the mill, our dog Gypsy following 

us and barking into the woods surrounding the path. 

Something had her excited. I hoped it wasn’t a bear or 

a cougar. 

“Father?” 

“What is it, George?” 

“I thought you liked Mr. Hampton.” 

“I liked him just fine.” 

“Then why do you think he was a sinner? I mean, a 

worse sinner than Mr. Harkness?” 

Father rubbed his chin with the flat of his hand. 

“George,” he said, “you’re almost a man now. You 

need to understand the way things work. God in his 

wisdom created different types of people. That’s the 

way he wanted it. So when those different types of 

people …” He stopped himself, then started again. 

“When it comes to marrying and raising bairns, those 

types are meant to stick to their own kind. Are you 

following me?” 

I was not, in fact, following him too well. But I was 

a man, or almost a man. Father had just said so. And a 

man has to understand these things. 

“Sure I do,” I said. 

“Good. Now get yourself to school and put some 

learning in that head of yours.” 

The settlers built the one-room schoolhouse 

on the western edge of Nooksack a few years ago. It 

takes a good hour of walking for John, Will, Annie, 

and me to get there, following the trail that leads into 

town—the one that passes by Mr. Bell’s cabin. Even 

three days later there’s a bitter smell in the air from 

the fire as we go by. Every morning since it happened, 

John and Will had wanted to linger at the Bell place 

and explore. I had to bark at them to hurry along, 

lest we were late for school and Miss Carmichael, the 

schoolma’am, kept us in at recess as punishment. 

Jimmy Bell wasn’t at school Wednesday morning. 

Neither was Pete Harkness. Miss Carmichael had to 

yell at us kids to pay attention. Nobody had a mind for 

grammar or sums. All anybody wanted to talk about 

was the funeral, and whether Jimmy and Pete would 

be there. And whether Mrs. Bell would show up. I’ve 

seen Annette Bell in town, and a few times when I 

was over at The Crossing to visit Pete. She is young— 

younger than Mam—and she comes from Australia, 

which makes her a curiosity. Folks around here come 

from Great Britain and Canada and various states, but 

44 45


she’s the only one from Australia. Everybody knows 

that they send convicts to Australia. 

It’s hard to picture Mrs. Bell being in love with 

old Mr. Bell. Pete’s father, on the other hand, is tall 

and strong and broad-shouldered from pulling the 

cable ferry that spans the Nooksack River—the sort of 

man that some women, Mam is willing to grant, find 

handsome. It seems the Harkness men are lucky that 

way. 

Miss Carmichael told the senior class to take out 

our slates and do the algebra she’d written on the 

blackboard. Over the squeaking of chalk, I heard 

Abigail Stevens whisper to Kitty Pratt, “Mrs. Bell only 

married Mr. Bell for his money.” 

Abigail is sixteen and—I supposed—knows about 

such things. I remembered the five hundred dollars 

in gold coin that Sheriff Leckie found in Mr. Bell’s 

cabin, and thought that maybe she was right. 

At noon, Miss Carmichael—who suffers from 

nervous headaches—told us not to come back to 

school after the dinner break. I started on my way 

home with John, Will, and Annie, but it wasn’t long 

before a different destination came to mind. The 

funeral was due to get started at one o’clock. All the 

men of the Nooksack Valley would be there, and I 

intended to be there, too. I told John to walk on home 

with the younger kids. But being stubborn by nature, 

John was not about to be left behind. So Will wound 

up walking Annie home, while John and I headed over 

to the Hauser place. 

“Why is the funeral happening at the Hausers’?” I 

pondered as we walked. “Why not at church?” 

Nooksack has two churches to choose from, the 

Presbyterian and the Methodist. We Gillies are 

Presbyterians, being Scots. 

“Don’t you know that old man Bell was godless?” 

replied John. 

“Is that what Jimmy told you?” 

“Jimmy says he was a downright heathen. Worse 

than an Indian, because he should know better.” 

“Is that why Jimmy and his mam left him?” 

“I don’t know why they left,” said John. 

“It’s like there were two different Mr. Bells,” 

I mused. “Some folks say he was a nice old man, 

generous to a fault. Others say he was strange in the 

head. It’s sad his own son doesn’t care that he’s dead.” 

John had no comment on that. 

The Hausers’ farm is on the opposite side of 

Nooksack from our place—south of town instead of 

north. It’s just a stone’s throw from The Crossing, 

where Bill Moultray has his store and Dave Harkness 

has his ferry. When John and I got there, the long 

track leading up to the cabin was clogged with 

wagons. Dozens of horses were tethered to bushes 

46 47


and to the split-rail fence surrounding a small corral. 

Still more were inside the corral, poking their noses 

through the fence to snatch mouthfuls of clover. I 

recognized Star, the Harknesses’ gelding. Up closer 

to the cabin, John and I came across Mae, tied by her 

reins to a cedar sapling. When John spoke her name, 

she raised her head and gave us a funny look, like she 

was wondering what in heck we were doing there. 

Then she went back to cropping grass. 

Several men were standing outside on the veranda, 

smoking and talking quietly. Among them were Bill 

Osterman, the telegraph man who’d led our search 

through the swamp, and Tom Breckenridge’s father, 

who had gone up north with Sheriff Leckie. Dave 

Harkness was with them, too. Mr. Osterman’s face was 

grim. 

“Are we going to allow the Canadians to interfere 

in our business?” he was saying. “Does a murdering 

Indian deserve a trial, same as a civilized man?” 

“He most certainly does not!” declared Mr. 

Breckenridge. 

Bert Hopkins, a shorty in specs who runs the new 

Nooksack Hotel, spoke up. 

“What can we do about it? The Canadians have got 

him in custody by now.” 

“We got a jail right here in town that would hold 

him just fine,” said Mr. Harkness. 

“That’s what I’m thinking,” agreed Mr. Osterman. 

At that moment, my friend Pete came outside. 

“Pa, Uncle Bill,” he said, Mr. Osterman being 

married to his auntie, “they’re ready to start.” 

The men exchanged more grim looks, and filed into 

the cabin. 

“Pete!” I called. 

He turned, frowning at the sight of John and me as 

we reached the veranda. 

“This is no place for kids,” he said. 

That made my blood boil. Sometimes Pete acts like 

such a big bug, just because he’s got a year’s head start 

on me. 

“We’re the ones who found the body,” John shot 

back. “We got a right to be here.” 

“There’s serious talk going on inside,” Pete told us. 

“If you can hear it, I can hear it,” I said. 

“And me,” John was quick to add. 

“I’m not wasting my time arguing with you two,” 

Pete replied, and went into the cabin. 

John and I went right in after him. 

The cabin was so packed with men that it was easy 

for John and me not to be noticed by Father, who was 

on the other side of the room. Mrs. Bell was not there, 

but her son Jimmy was. A wooden box containing 

Mr. Bell was propped up on chairs at one end of the 

room. Jimmy stood near the casket, wearing a sullen 

expression, like he didn’t want to be there. John and 

48 49


I listened while several of the men said nice things 

about Mr. Bell. Bill Moultray gave a speech first, then 

Mr. Breckenridge spoke, and Mr. Hauser, but neither 

Jimmy nor Mr. Harkness had anything to say about 

the dead man. 

When Mr. Osterman got up to speak, he took a 

different tone. He didn’t talk about what a good man 

Mr. Bell was. He talked about what an outrage it was 

the way Mr. Bell died. He talked about how, in the 

absence of the U.S. Army, it fell to the men of the 

Nooksack Valley to protect their wives and children 

from what had happened to Mr. Bell. An example had 

to be made, he said. 

“This is the new frontier. Like the great frontiersmen 

before us, we must defend what’s ours. It’s up to 

us to see that civilized justice is done.” 

“Hear, hear!” shouted Mr. Harkness. 

The room suddenly got loud, with everybody 

nodding his head and agreeing with his neighbor 

that what Mr. Osterman said was dead to right. The 

Indians had to know who was in charge. A proposal 

was made by Mr. Osterman that the men present 

should form the Nooksack Vigilance Committee— 

just as other frontier towns had done to uphold law 

and order. Mr. Harkness declared that the first order 

of business of the Nooksack Vigilance Committee 

was to make sure that Louie Sam paid for what he 

did to Mr. Bell. A plan took shape to set out that very 

day north to Canada to make sure justice was served 

against the renegade Indian—for nobody present was 

in a mood for assuming the Canadians would do what 

was right, what was needed. 

For the first time, Father spoke up. 

“According to Mr. Breckenridge,” he said, “Sheriff 

Leckie and the Canadian justice of the peace have 

gone to Sumas to make the arrest. We should wait 

until the sheriff comes back. See what he has to say 

about the situation.” 

“Maybe that’s how things are done where you come 

from, Mr. Gillies,” replied Mr. Osterman, “but we 

need surer justice!” 

“And swifter!” It was Dave Harkness talking now. 

Pete was at his elbow, puffed up— trying to look like 

as big a man as his pa. “Why wait? That Indian needs 

his neck stretched.” 

“Hold on a minute,” said Mr. Stevens, Abigail’s 

father. “They got procedures across the border. We 

could find ourselves in an international incident if we 

act out of turn.” 

“It was one of us that was killed,” called out Mr. 

Harkness. “It should be us that settles it!” 

Everybody was talking and shouting at once now, 

smelling blood. 

“But what if he’s holed up with the Sumas?” said 

Mr. Hopkins. “There’s hundreds of them. You think 

they’re going to just let us waltz in and take one of 

50 51


their own away?” 

“Then we’ll show them we got the numbers to 

stand up to them!” shouted Mr. Harkness. 

“We should dress up like warriors!” Mr. 

Breckenridge called out. “Give those savages a taste of 

their own medicine!” 

There was mayhem now, everybody talking so loud 

as to wake up even poor Mr. Bell. Mr. Osterman got 

up on Mrs. Hauser’s table and held up his hands to 

quiet them down. 

“Spread the word to those who aren’t here. We 

meet at The Crossing at nightfall.” 

“Wait!” It was Father speaking. Suddenly, all eyes 

were on him. “I’d like to hear what Mr. Moultray has 

to say about this expedition.” 

Everyone turned to Bill Moultray, the richest man 

among them and the one who holds the most weight. 

His brow was furrowed, like he was giving serious 

consideration to what was being proposed. 

“Well, Bill?” said Mr. Osterman. “What do you say?” 

You could hear a pin drop as the men waited for 

his blessing. 

“I say,” he pronounced at last, “that this is the time 

for every man to stand up and do what’s right.” 

And so it was agreed. The Nooksack Vigilance 

Committee would set out that night in disguise and 

under the cover of darkness to find Louie Sam, and 

avenge the death of James Bell. 

Chapter Six 

After the speeches, we gathered in a clearing on 

the Hausers’ land where the Hausers had buried two 

of their babies that died. John and I watched from 

the trees as they put Mr. Bell’s casket in the ground 

and filled in the hole, marking the spot with a small 

wooden cross to match those on the babies’ graves. 

Heathen or not, Mr. Bell was buried as a Christian. 

Soon as that was done, the men found their horses 

and wagons and set off for home to ready themselves 

for the night’s adventure. There was discussion 

about what form their warrior costumes should take. 

Somebody suggested they should paint their faces 

to make themselves look frightening, the way the 

Nooksack Indians and their cousins the Sumas do at 

their potlatches. 

Father spotted John and me as he walked to fetch 

Mae. He was not pleased to see us. 

“Why aren’t you two in school?” 

“Miss Carmichael dismissed us,” I said. Then I 

couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Are you going with 

52 53


them tonight?” 

“Never you mind what I’m doing, George.” 

“But Mr. Osterman said every man is needed.” 

Father reddened. He was angry now. 

“You two were inside there?” 

It was John who answered with his usual cheek, 

“Yes, sir. It’s our duty to defend the Nooksack Valley.” 

Father took a measure of John, like he was about to 

get angrier still. But, instead, he cooled right down. 

“I appreciate that, John,” Father said. “The best 

thing you can do to help is to keep watch over your 

mam and the wee ones.” 

I don’t know what made me say it—maybe it was 

the way that Father was looking at John like he was 

just as much of a man as I was—but without thinking 

about it I announced, “I’m going with you!” 

Father looked at me and let out a laugh. 

“To raid an Indian village? Nae, laddie, you are 

staying put.” With that he climbed up on Mae and 

started her away at a trot, calling back to us, “You boys 

get yourselves home.” 

John started hoofing it down the track, following 

Father and Mae. I stayed put. 

“Well, c’mon,” he said, turning back. “What are you 

waiting for?” 

“Go on ahead,” I told him. “I’ve got some business 

to attend to.” 

“The only business you got is minding Father.” 

“Go on,” I said. “I’ll be there soon.” 

“Fine with me, if what you want is a whipping.” 

With a shrug, John walked on. In truth I had no 

business whatsoever to keep me there. My gaze fell 

upon Pete, who looked as irritated as I felt. I walked 

over to him. 

“What do you want?” he said. 

“Nothing!” I barked back, matching his tone. “Can’t 

a fella say hello?” 

“I’m not in a ‘hello-ing’ mood right now.” 

Pete started walking down the path. I fell in 

beside him. 

“Aren’t you waiting for your pa?” I asked him. 

“He went ahead.” 

“He left you behind?” 

“Yes, he left me behind. What about it?” 

“He left you behind with us kids?” 

Pete stopped, turned. “You want a fat lip, George?” 

He held his fist up, curled tight. He would have hit 

me, too. Pete’s the type to act first and think about it 

later. But I decided to take a higher road. 

“I’m going with them tonight,” I said. 

I could see that took the wind out of Pete’s sails. 

“Your pa said you could?” 

“Doesn’t matter what he says. I’m going. It’s 

our duty to defend the Nooksack Valley,” I added, 

borrowing the phrase that had served John so well 

with Father. 

54 55


Pete got a snide look. 

“And how do you plan to do that without a horse?” 

He raised a good point. Father would be riding 

Mae. Our mule, Ulysses, was only good for pulling the 

plough and sometimes the buckboard wagon. But then 

an idea struck me. 

“I know where there’s a horse.” 

“Where?” 

“They put Mr. Bell’s horse in Mr. Moultray’s livery. 

I don’t reckon Mr. Bell would complain about me 

borrowing him, considering the purpose.” 

Pete’s wheels were turning. 

“I’m going with you,” he said. 

“You’re not invited.” Now that I had the upper 

hand, I wasn’t about to let it go. 

Pete came back with, “You’re taking me with you, 

or I’m telling your pa and Mr. Moultray what you’re 

up to.” 

He had me. There was nothing I could do but 

give in. Besides, the truth was that I wouldn’t mind 

his company. It was a dangerous road we were about 

to travel. 

I went home and did my chores. At supper, Annie 

told Mam I was coming down with something, all 

because when I was splitting wood and she was 

feeding the chickens she kept prattling on asking me 

what names I liked for the new baby, and I told her 

in no uncertain terms that I did not feel like talking. 

Mam held her hand to my forehead and agreed that 

I felt warm. She told me she wanted me to go to 

bed right after I was finished eating. Little did she 

know that she was aiding my plan to join the men 

at The Crossing, because I knew I could easily slip 

out the window from the back room we kids shared. 

I was careful not to look at John while we sat at the 

table, for fear he would see in my eyes what was on 

my mind. 

All this time, Father was busy gathering his 

disguise. When at last he appeared, I thought Mam’s 

jaw would hit the floor. 

“What on earth!” she cried. 

Over his head was a gunnysack from the mill, 

with holes cut in it for his eyes. Mam’s petticoat 

was hanging from around his neck. The layers of 

cloth flounced over his shoulders when he walked, 

something like feathers on a fluffy bird. Annie 

laughed, thinking she’d never seen such a funny 

sight as our Father at that moment. But Isabel was 

frightened and would not stop crying until Father 

removed the gunnysack from his head. Once she got 

over her shock, Mam was furious that he’d ruined her 

petticoat by cutting holes in it for his arms. She barely 

said good-bye to him as he headed out to saddle Mae. 

It seemed like the argument they were having that 

morning was still going on. 

56 57


I excused myself from the table, making like I was 

too ill to finish my stew. In the back room, I quickly 

put on my jacket and my boots. That’s when John 

came in. If he was surprised to see me getting ready to 

escape, he didn’t show it. 

“So you’re doing this, then,” he said. 

“You keep your mouth shut about it, you hear me, 

John Gillies?” 

“I hear you.” He kept his voice low, mindful lest 

Mam hear us from the front room. He added, “You 

better tell me all about it when you get back.” 

I ran most of the way to The Crossing. Dusk was 

settling in, making it hard to find my footing on the 

trail, but I kept moving fast. I had no fear of being 

found out by Father, who was well ahead of me on 

Mae. But if I was late, I knew Pete would take Mr. 

Bell’s horse and leave without me. 

The Crossing is almost a village unto itself. Mr. 

Moultray built his store near to the ferry crossing, 

and farmers come from miles around to sell their 

goods and buy supplies. He’s got his livery stable 

next door, in which he boards wagon and stagecoach 

teams journeying along the Whatcom Trail. He boards 

passengers in the rooms above his store. Between the 

farmers and the travelers, Father says he must do fine 

business. 

By the time I reached the large clearing outside 

the livery stable, there must have been close to a 

hundred men and horses gathered there. It was fully 

dark now. Many of the men carried lanterns; all of 

them had rifles by their sides. They were a strange and 

frightening sight, dressed in sundry getups, many of 

them wearing skirts and petticoats—like Father’s— 

borrowed from their wives. Others wore their coats 

inside out, so that the fur linings made them look 

like hairy beasts. Many had their faces painted, like 

Indians on the warpath—darkened with charcoal, with 

a flash of red across their eyes. I picked out my father 

seated on Mae, his face darkened with smudge since I 

last saw him, and our hunting rifle resting in the crook 

of his arm. 

I skirted around them, keeping to the shadows. I 

found Pete inside Mr. Moultray’s barn. He had Mr. 

Bell’s horse saddled with borrowed tack. 

“You took your sweet time getting here,” Pete said. 

“It’s easy for you, living next door,” I pointed out. 

All Pete had to do was walk a hundred yards from 

the ferryman’s house and he was at Mr. Moultray’s 

store and livery. 

We waited inside the livery for the Nooksack 

Vigilance Committee to depart. Pete and I opened the 

livery stable door just enough so we could listen, and 

watch. Mr. Moultray, as the natural leader, spoke to 

them before they set off. 

“We came here from far away, from many states 

58 59


and many countries,” he said. “All we found when we 

got here was a trail left by the gold diggers twenty 

years ago, and the stumps left behind by the lumber 

barons. We cleared this land with our bare hands. We 

planted crops and raised cattle. We put the telegraph 

through. We built churches and a school. We built 

a town.” Here he paused, the way my father pauses 

when he’s reading the Bible out loud to us to let 

the important bits sink in. “We can’t let the Indians 

threaten everything we’ve created here. We can’t give 

them the notion that we lack the will to defend what’s 

ours. Louie Sam took a life. He took one of our own. 

The dictates of civilization tell us that there is only 

one way that amends can be made.” 

“Hang him!” someone shouted. 

A loud cry of approval went up from the men. The 

punishment for murder was hanging. Everybody knew 

that. Yet when I looked over to Father, I could see by 

the light of the lantern he was holding that he was not 

among those who were cheering. His face was serious 

and stern, made more so by the blackening he’d 

smeared over it. I couldn’t understand him. Why was 

he not cheering with the rest of them, when the need 

to take action was so clear? 

“Let’s go!” called out Dave Harkness. 

He spurred Star and rode up beside his brotherin-law, 

Mr. Osterman. The two of them set off in the 

lead, along with Mr. Moultray. Mr. Breckenridge and 

Mr. Hopkins followed them. The rest of the men and 

horses fell in behind. There were so many that it took 

several minutes for them to form a parade, following 

the acknowledged leaders up the Whatcom Trail to 

Canada in clumps of twos and threes. My father rode 

alone, toward the rear. 

As soon as the last man was out of sight, Pete led 

Mr. Bell’s horse out of the stable. “What do we do for 

light?” I asked. It was a clear night, but lit by only a 

sliver of moon rising over the trees. 

“We do without,” Pete said. “You want them to 

look back and spot us?” 

I supposed he was right, but the idea of riding 

through the woods in the pitch black made me 

nervous. There were wild cats and wolves about who 

would just love a taste of horsemeat. In the time I 

hesitated, Pete climbed up on Mr. Bell’s horse in the 

front position and took up the reins. 

“Hold on,” I said. “This was my idea. I should ride 

up front.” 

“Quit arguing and get on board,” Pete replied. 

There was nothing for me to do but climb up into 

the saddle behind Pete. Mr. Bell’s gelding was a sturdy 

sixteen hander, well able to hold our weight. Pete gave 

him a kick and he started off after the other horses, 

like he didn’t need to be told where to go. 

All he needed to do was follow the pack. 

60 61


Chapter Seven 

The men were quiet as they rode from The 

Crossing, following the Whatcom Trail as it became 

Nooksack Avenue, the main street of the town, then 

continuing north and east to the outskirts of the 

homesteaders’ farms and beyond. By then we were 

surrounded by untamed forest. All I could hear ahead 

of us was the soft thud of hooves on the trail and the 

odd twig snapping. After a while, the stars came out 

and the wilderness seemed less black. Still, we made 

slow progress, for not even the most eager of the men 

was willing to risk breaking his horse’s leg by pushing 

him past a quick walk in the dark. I dared not say a 

word to Pete even in a whisper, knowing how my voice 

would carry. We rode this way for well over an hour, 

until suddenly we heard talking ahead. 

Pete and I jumped down from the horse and led 

it by the reins up closer to the posse. We saw in a 

clearing ahead that many of the men had dismounted. 

Their lanterns formed a ring of light as they gathered 

around someone or something. I signaled for Pete to 

stay put with the horse, and I crept ahead through 

the trees so I could hear what was going on without 

being detected. I recognized Sheriff Leckie’s voice 

coming from the middle of the circle of men and I 

realized our posse must have met up with him on the 

trail on his way back from Canada. He was telling the 

others what had happened since Mr. Breckenridge left 

him and the Canadian justice of the peace, William 

Campbell, two days earlier. 

“I’ll tell you one thing,” the sheriff was saying, “they 

got a different way of handling the Indian problem up 

there. Got them all convinced that the bloody Queen 

of England is their Great Mother.” 

Sheriff Leckie relayed how he had gone with 

Justice Campbell to the Sumas Indian village, where 

Louie Sam came from. According to the sheriff, 

Justice Campbell entered into considerable discussions 

with the Sumas chiefs—more discussion than was 

necessary, in the sheriff ’s opinion. At last they 

agreed to hand the renegade over. When they laid 

eyes on Louie Sam, he appeared not even a little bit 

remorseful for what he did to Mr. Bell. The sheriff 

recounted how Justice Campbell explained to him 

in simple English that he was accused of murder, 

just like his father, Mesatche Jack Sam, had been 

before him. He explained there would be a trial with 

witnesses, just like his old man had, but that in the 

meantime Louie Sam would have to come with him to 

62 63


jail. Sheriff Leckie said that Louie Sam was peaceable 

enough, not kicking up a fuss when Justice Campbell 

put the handcuffs on him. 

Dave Harkness said, “You mean to say you left that 

Indian there, warming himself inside a Canadian jail?” 

“If letting a heathen murderer sit in jail with three 

squares a day is the Canadian idea of justice served, 

then we got a problem,” stated Mr. Osterman. 

There was a good deal of agreement among the 

men. Then my father spoke up, raising his voice above 

the others so that he would be sure to be heard. 

“Justice Campbell promised there would be a trial,” 

he said. “That’s justice served.” 

A hush fell over the men. Nobody was rushing 

to agree with Father, the way they had with Mr. 

Osterman. 

“If I’m hearing you right, Mr. Gillies,” replied Mr. 

Osterman, “you recommend that the Indian deserves 

some kind of leniency.” 

“Give ’em an inch, they’ll take a yard!” spat Mr. 

Harkness. 

The other men took up the call for action. But 

Father wouldn’t quit talking. In fact, the more they 

shouted him down, the more he seemed determined to 

have his say. 

“We set out to make sure Louie Sam paid for what 

he did according to the law,” Father shouted above 

them. “We should let him stand trial.” 

It’s just like my father to speak his mind like that. 

Sometimes I think he goes out of his way to hold 

an opinion that’s contrary to what most people hold 

to be true. What made him think he was right and 

everybody else was wrong? Why couldn’t he just go 

along? For the first time in my life, I was embarrassed 

for him—embarrassed by him. 

“Would you have us leave the job half done?” asked 

Mr. Breckenridge. “Maybe that’s how you do things 

in the Old Country, Mr. Gillies, but it isn’t how we do 

things around here.” 

“Louie Sam can not be allowed to spread lies in a 

court of law,” declared Mr. Osterman. “Are we agreed?” 

There was loud accord. I could see Father looking 

around as though expecting to find at least one man 

in the posse who wasn’t set against him. But it seemed 

there was none. Father said no more. 

Sheriff Leckie spoke: “I want to be clear. I have no 

authority on the Canadian side, nor can I allow you 

men to act on my authority. But this much I can tell 

you. Justice Campbell left the Indian in the hands of 

two constables, Jim Steele and Thomas York.” 

“Thomas York,” said Mr. Moultray. “I’ve had 

dealings with him. He’s a wily old Scot.” 

Someone called out, “One of your countrymen, is 

he not, Mr. Gillies?” 

“Let’s hope he’s not as soft-hearted as you!” 

shouted someone else. 

64 65


“Or soft-headed!” came another jibe from the 

crowd. 

There was great laughter at that, from everyone but 

my father. 

“How comes Thomas York to be a constable?” asked 

Mr. Moultray. 

“He was deputized this afternoon for the purpose, 

by his son-in-law—Justice Campbell—along with 

the other fella, Steele. They’re to bring the accused to 

the town of New Westminster in the morning, to the 

nearest courthouse.” 

I noticed a look passing between Mr. Harkness and 

Mr. Osterman. 

“Over our dead bodies,” said Dave Harkness. 

Mr. Osterman asked, “Where might Louie Sam 

be now?” 

“He’s being held in Mr. York’s farmhouse for 

the night.” 

“Where would we find this farmhouse?” Mr. 

Harkness asked. 

“At Sumas Prairie, no more than six miles 

from here.” 

Sheriff Leckie rode on back to Nooksack shortly 

thereafter, leaving the leaders of the posse to chew 

over the news he’d brought them. Our prospects had 

changed considerably. No longer were the men facing 

the frightening possibility of fighting the Sumas 

Indians in order to seize Louie Sam. Now their task 

was much simpler, there being only two constables at 

a farmhouse to be dealt with, one of them an old man. 

The mood lightened among the men, some of them 

joking that the Indian would soon be guest of honour 

at his own necktie party. But Mr. Hopkins pointed 

out that while Mr. York was old and feeble, they knew 

nothing about the second constable, Steele. And both 

men would be armed. 

“There’s a hundred of us against two of them,” 

shouted Mr. Harkness. “Let them try and stop us!” 

That started another round of cheering. Mr. 

Moultray, who hadn’t said much up until now, quieted 

everybody down. 

“Our purpose is to take Louie Sam,” he declared in 

his speech-giving voice. “I will not be party to spilling 

the blood of Thomas York, nor of the other constable. 

Let no other white man be harmed in this sorry 

business.” 

At that, the posse calmed down. The five leaders— 

Mr. Moultray, Mr. Osterman, Mr. Harkness, Mr. 

Hopkins, and Mr. Breckenridge—went off to confer 

by themselves for a little while, and when they 

returned to the group they announced they had a 

plan. They proposed that one of our number be sent 

ahead to the York farm as a scout. Dave Harkness put 

forward his friend Jack Simpson, a coach driver for 

Mr. Moultray’s livery stable, as the best candidate for 

66 67


the job, since Jack is an amiable sort and might do 

well at winning Mr. York’s trust. Also, Jack was easily 

made to look like an ordinary traveler, having not 

blackened his face like many of the men had done, 

and changing his costume was only a matter of taking 

his inside-out coat and putting it to rights. Jack was 

dispatched with instructions to tell Mr. York he was 

in need of a bed for the night, and to that way gain 

entrance to the farmhouse. The posse would follow 

within two hours. 

That left the rest of the men to cool their heels and 

rest their horses. Some lit campfires. Others took the 

chance to claim a few winks of sleep. I was about to 

go back to Pete and fill him in on all I’d heard when, 

wouldn’t you know it, a whinny comes from out of the 

darkness, and there’s Pete—riding up on Mr. Bell’s 

horse. The men were instantly on alert for trouble. 

“Who goes there?” shouted Dave Harkness. 

He took aim with his rifle in the general direction 

of Pete, his finger twitching over the trigger. 

Chapter Eight 

“Don’t shoot!” Pete called in a fright. “It’s me! 

Your son!” he added, as if his own pa might not own 

him. 

“Pete? Show yourself!” 

I watched from behind the trees as Pete rode 

forward to where the light from the lanterns and the 

campfires could better identify him. Mr. Harkness spat 

into the grass. 

“I recollect telling you to stay home. Whose horse 

is that?” 

“Mr. Bell’s, sir.” 

“Get down from there.” 

Pete jumped down from the gelding as Mr. 

Moultray stepped over. 

“Did you take that horse out of my stable, boy? 

Without my permission?” 

Now Mr. Osterman got involved. 

“Don’t take a conniption fit, Bill. That horse as 

good as belongs to the Harknesses.” 

“That’s right,” Pete’s father said, as though Mr. 

68 69


Osterman had just reminded him of the fact. “It 

should go to Annette.” 

“The merry widow,” someone said. 

There was laughter at that, until Mr. Harkness 

told everyone present, “Shut your traps!” Such is 

Mr. Harkness’s temper and physical might that they 

obeyed him—and quickly, too. 

Mr. Osterman said, “You should be proud of the 

boy, Dave. It took gumption to follow us like that.” 

I remembered that Mr. Osterman had said 

something similar about me the morning we found 

Mr. Bell’s body, and it gave me the courage to come 

out of my hiding place. Besides, now that Pete had 

been discovered with our horse, it was show myself 

or walk all the way back to Nooksack by myself in 

the dark. 

“Well, lookie here,” said Mr. Harkness as I stepped 

forward. “Mr. Gillies, this one belongs to you, does 

he not?” 

Father, who had been resting against a fallen log 

paying scant attention to Pete and the horse, now 

looked over. It took him a moment to focus his eyes 

on me, and another to get over his disbelief at seeing 

me there. He got to his feet and came over to me 

slowly. I was aware that the other men were watching 

him, and I did not for one minute like their grinning 

expressions. 

“I told you to stay home, George,” Father said. 

I replied, “I wanted to help catch the renegade, 

sir, and to make him pay for what he did to poor 

Mr. Bell.” 

I was showing him all the respect I could muster, 

just to prove to those men that he was a man worth 

respecting. But it seemed I only made matters worse, 

for Pete’s father got a smirk on his face to end all. 

“Looks like you got more backbone than your old 

man, son,” said Mr. Harkness. 

Without uttering a word in reply, my father turned 

away and went back to the log he had been leaning 

on. Part of me wanted to go over and sit with him, to 

show those laughing men that I was on his side, no 

matter what. But a bigger part of me—the part that 

wanted to see justice done—told me to stand with the 

posse. That’s the part that won out. I went to warm my 

hands at a small campfire that some of the men had 

started, keeping close to Pete and his pa—ignoring 

my own father. I felt guilty, but angry, too. Sometimes 

Father takes being his own man too far. 

At the appointed time, the men mounted their 

horses and started north to Mr. York’s farmhouse at 

Sumas Prairie. Pete and I were allowed to go with 

them, mostly because there was no longer the danger 

of the posse being attacked by a whole band of 

Indians. But we were told by Mr. Osterman to keep to 

the back of the group, because the things that would 

70 71


be happening were not suitable for boys our age to be 

witnessing up close. 

Mr. Bell’s horse had a short gait that made for a 

bumpy ride even at a walk, but I tried to think about 

the satisfaction of seeing the look on that Indian’s face 

when at last we’d have him cornered—instead of how 

squished I felt behind Pete on that saddle. After the 

way the men had spoken to my father, I did not think 

it wise to push the point with Pete that it was my 

turn to be riding up front, lest I get some of the same 

treatment. 

By about ten o’clock, we were getting close to Mr. 

York’s farmhouse. Jack Simpson had not returned to 

us, which was taken as a sign that he had been allowed 

into the house by Mr. York and would unbolt the door 

for us once the household was asleep. At last we could 

see our destination by starlight, a fine two-story frame 

house that spoke to Mr. York’s success. The yard was 

even fenced with white pickets, to keep the livestock 

out of Mrs. York’s flower beds, I supposed. All was 

quiet—not so much as a dog barking. Mr. Osterman 

called the posse to a halt a good two hundred yards 

off. 

“This is it,” he said, his voice low. “It’s now or 

never—our last chance to show Louie Sam American 

justice.” He pulled his revolver out of its holster. “I 

need ten men to come inside with me.” 

Most of the men were eager to go into the house 

with Mr. Osterman. Among the chosen few were 

Pete’s pa, Mr. Moultray, and Mr. Breckenridge. My 

father was not among those who volunteered, nor 

was he asked. The only one of the leaders to stay back 

was little Mr. Hopkins, who, now that the plan was 

actually about to be hatched, seemed frightened by the 

whole business. 

“Once we’re inside the house,” said Mr. Moultray, 

“the rest of you gather in the yard. Give them a 

show of our numbers, just in case Mr. York or the 

other constable has any ideas about keeping us from 

our purpose.” 

In the excitement, I suppose Mr. Moultray forgot 

about Pete and me, because no further mention was 

made of us being too young to witness what was 

about to happen. We waited with the other men, 

still on horseback, watching as Mr. Osterman and 

Mr. Moultray dismounted and led the party up 

through the white picket fence to the house and 

onto the veranda—rifles and revolvers at the ready. 

By the light of their lanterns, we could make out 

Mr. Osterman approaching the door and trying the 

latch. A second later, Mr. Osterman disappeared 

into the house, followed by the others. We saw their 

lantern light through the parlor window. I swear that 

barely a breath was taken by those of us left behind. 

We waited. 

Suddenly, a woman was screaming—followed 

72 73


by angry shouts. We couldn’t be sure whether the 

shouting was coming from our men or from the 

Canadian constables, but nevertheless we took it as 

our cue. Spurring our horses, we rode as a pack up into 

the farmhouse yard, leaping the fence or crowding 

through the gate, whooping and hollering—making 

as much noise as we could to show the Canadian 

lawmen that we meant business. Pete and I joined in 

the hoopla, although we did not have the benefit of 

costumes and painted faces to boost the effect as the 

others did. 

In a few moments, Dave Harkness appeared at the 

door, dragging with him into the yard a cowed and 

stumbling body, his hands cuffed behind his back. Mr. 

Osterman and Mr. Moultray were right behind them. 

A cry went up from the posse. We had him—we had 

the murderer! 

Leaving Pete, I slipped off the horse’s back and 

pushed my way through the pack to get a better 

look. The Indian was on his knees in the dirt with Mr. 

Harkness and Mr. Moultray leaning over him. Mr. 

Harkness pulled him to his feet. That’s when I got my 

first good look at Louie Sam, as well as the shock of 

my life. 

Louie Sam was just a boy, even younger than I. 

Chapter Nine 

Louie Sam was small but broad-faced, his skin the 

copper color of his people. His dark hair hung shaggy 

and loose, not braided the way a brave would have 

it. I wondered if he was too young to wear his hair 

that way. The posse men jeered at him and called him 

names as they gathered around him in the farmyard, 

but he said nothing. The look on his face was somewhere 

between surly and terrified, though from the 

way he shook, it seemed to me he was more scared 

than angry. But he could well have been shaking from 

the cold night, because the men had pulled him out of 

the house the way I guess he had been sleeping, with 

only his shirt and pants, his suspenders hanging loose 

and no boots on his feet. 

I remembered Pete saying he was struck by fear 

the day of Mr. Bell’s murder, seeing the evil look of 

Louie Sam when he passed him on the Lynden road. 

Pete was a couple of years older than Louie Sam, and 

at least a head taller. I wondered, What was it about 

this Indian boy that had seemed so fearsome to Pete? 

74 75


There was nothing fearsome about him now. He was 

shrinking into himself, keeping his head bowed like he 

was expecting a beating. But at the same time, there 

was something about the way he held his back and 

shoulders, stiff and proud, that made it seem like he 

wasn’t the least bit sorry for what he’d done to find 

himself in this situation. 

Old Mr. York came out on the veranda, cussing at 

our men in a Scots brogue thicker than my father’s. 

He was fit to be tied that guns had been pointed at his 

wife and daughter, who were presently under guard 

by one of our number in an upstairs room. The other 

constable, Steele, didn’t seem so worked up as Mr. 

York. He was quiet and let Mr. York do the talking. 

When Jack Simpson slipped out of the house and 

rejoined us, Mr. York was madder than a wet hen. 

“You! One of these border ruffians, are ye? I take ye 

into my house in the middle of the night, and this is 

the thanks I get?” 

From his place on the veranda, Mr. York peered 

out into the posse that filled his yard, Mr. Steele at his 

side. Our numbers and our disguises seemed to make 

him think twice about his show of temper, because he 

cooled down a notch or two. 

“What kind of cowards dress up in their wives’ 

frocks?” he spat, but he lacked the fire he had spewed 

only a moment before. 

Mr. Moultray spoke. “We’ve got no argument with 

you. We came for the Indian. That’s all.” 

Mr. York squinted into the darkness. “Is that you, 

Bill Moultray?” 

It seemed to me that Louie Sam turned his head at 

the mention of Mr. Moultray’s name. 

“Take my advice, sir,” said Mr. Osterman, “and 

mind your own business.” 

Mr. York looked at the Indian boy shivering in his 

yard, his hands bound behind his back with cuffs of 

metal. 

“The Sumas won’t like it,” he said. “They handed 

him to my son-in-law because they were promised a 

fair trial.” 

“Don’t you worry,” answered Mr. Harkness. “We’ll 

make sure he gets a fair trial.” 

There was spirited laughter and rumblings of 

agreement from the posse at that. The old man 

seemed to weigh his options—which were few and far 

between. 

“Think about what you’re doing, Bill,” said Mr. 

York, addressing Mr. Moultray. Mr. Moultray stayed 

quiet, like he didn’t want to give himself away again 

with his voice. “This isn’t the South. We don’t hang a 

body just for being colored.” 

It was the first time anybody had mentioned 

hanging since we arrived at Mr. York’s. I peered over 

at Louie Sam to see his reaction, but he didn’t flinch 

from keeping his head low and still—which made me 

76 77


think he didn’t understand English too well. 

“I don’t recall anybody talking about hanging him,” 

called Mr. Osterman. “We want him to face justice, 

that’s all.” 

Mr. York waved away the posse with his hands, fed 

up with us. 

“Take him then. Just be gone away from my house, 

the lot of ye, and off my land!” 

A spare horse was led forward, one that was 

brought along for the purpose, and Louie Sam was 

lifted and placed upon its bare back, his hands still 

cuffed. 

“We’ll return the bracelets in the morning,” Mr. 

Harkness told Mr. York. 

With that, the posse left Mr. York’s yard, led by 

Mr. Osterman and Mr. Moultray—who, I noticed, 

continued to hold his tongue. Mr. Harkness took up 

the reins of the pony that carried Louie Sam and 

pulled it along behind him. I went to climb aboard 

Mr. Bell’s horse with Pete, but my father called to me. 

“George,” he said. “You ride with me.” 

I didn’t argue, and climbed up into Mae’s saddle 

behind him. 

Now that I saw Louie Sam with my own eyes, 

saw that he was flesh and blood—saw that he was no 

more than a kid—the real purpose of the Nooksack 

Vigilance Committee was hitting home. That boy is 

coming back to Nooksack to die, I realized. I knew that 

from the start, I guess, but it was just a fact to me 

then—a matter that needed to be settled in the name 

of justice for Mr. Bell. Why did it feel so different 

now? Suddenly, I was having a hard time picturing the 

scene at Mr. Bell’s place. How could a boy John’s age 

march into that cabin and shoot the old man in the 

back of the head, in cold blood? 

Something was niggling at me as we rode, like my 

brain was trying to tell me I’d missed something. Then 

all at once it came to me. 

“He’s wearing suspenders!” 

Father turned his ear toward me. “What did you 

say?” 

“Louie Sam. He’s wearing suspenders. Those 

weren’t his suspenders we found in the swamp.” 

Father said nothing for a few moments. I held on 

to him, feeling the muscles of his back working in 

rhythm with Mae. At last he spoke, keeping his voice 

very low. 

“That doesn’t mean anything. He could have found 

himself a second pair.” 

“But there’s a chance he didn’t. There’s a chance 

those were somebody else’s suspenders in the swamp. 

That somebody else was running away from Mr. Bell’s 

cabin.” 

Father turned his head to me, so only I could hear. 

“Keep that to yourself.” 

“But it’s evidence!” I said. 

78 79


“Quiet!” he hissed. 

“We have to tell them,” I whispered in his ear. 

“It’s too late. They won’t listen.” 

“But—” 

“Enough!” 

When my father says “enough,” that’s the end of 

it. I held my tongue, but my brain would not stop 

thinking. Everything had seemed so certain on the 

ride north. Now nothing was. Riding ahead of me in 

the darkness was the boy who murdered Mr. Bell, but 

maybe he didn’t. If justice was what we were after, 

then surely justice meant knowing without a doubt 

that he was guilty. I took my father’s point, though. 

Emotions were running high. My father was already 

suspected of soft resolve. This was not the time to 

mount a defense of Louie Sam, especially not coming 

from us Gillies. I decided that once we got Louie Sam 

back to the jail in Nooksack, I would go to Sheriff 

Leckie and tell him about the suspenders. 

But after riding for not even an hour, the posse 

stopped in a clearing. We were less than halfway 

home. It seemed odd to me that the men would want 

to take a break, considering the seriousness of their 

business. Then a rider—the same Jack Simpson who’d 

entered Mr. York’s house as our spy—came galloping 

past us in the opposite direction, going back up the 

Whatcom Trail from where we’d just come. Word 

filtered back through the ranks that Mr. Osterman 

and Mr. Moultray had sent him on a scouting mission, 

worried that maybe we were being followed by the 

Sumas—that they were riled that we’d taken one of 

their own, like Mr. York said they would be. If that 

was the case, we knew that every last man jack of us 

was in trouble, because the Canadian Indians were 

sure to outnumber us in a fight. 

The men—including Father—checked that their 

firearms were loaded. I saw Pete nearby. I slipped off 

of Mae. 

“George!” Father shouted. 

“I’ll be right back!” I told him. 

I went over to Pete. 

“I got something to tell you.” 

“What might that be?” 

He was acting huffy, looking down on me from his 

borrowed saddle. 

“I’m not sure that Louie Sam’s the one that left 

that trail, the one we followed through the swamp.” 

“What are you talking about? Anybody with eyes 

can see that Indian is guilty as sin, Gillies.” 

The way Pete said our family name made me mad, 

like he thought we were less than other people— 

especially his people. To get back at him, I said, 

“What were you so scared of him for when you saw 

him on the Lynden road? He’s only a boy.” 

Pete was about to spew something back at me, but 

at that moment Jack Simpson came galloping back 

80 81


again—this time riding toward the head of the posse. 

I forgot about Pete and started making my way up 

front to find out what was going on. There I saw Louie 

Sam, straddling the back of the pony, his hands still in 

cuffs behind his back. He kept his gaze directed to the 

ground but his back was straight. Jack Simpson was 

telling the posse leaders that, as far as he could see, 

the trail behind us was clear of Indians. 

“That doesn’t mean they won’t be coming soon,” 

Mr. Osterman observed. 

“We should hand him over if they do,” said Mr. 

Hopkins, who looked smaller than ever, perched on 

a horse that was too big for him. “Let the Canadians 

put him on trial.” 

“That’s not going to happen,” declared Pete’s pa. 

“What are we waiting for?” said Mr. Osterman. 

“Dave, where’s that rope?” 

Mr. Harkness took up a rope that was hanging in 

a coil from the horn of his saddle. I felt my stomach 

tighten. I glanced to Louie Sam, who didn’t flinch. 

Mr. Moultray pointed out, “We’re still on the 

Canadian side.” 

“So?” 

“So if there’s trouble about this, it’ll fall under 

Canadian law.” 

“If there’s trouble about this,” said Mr. Osterman, 

“better it be on their side of the border, with us safe 

on our side.” 

Other men spoke up, agreeing with Mr. Harkness 

and Mr. Osterman that they should get on with it. They 

meant to hang him, right here! A fever was building 

among the men. They were jeering at Louie Sam, 

calling for his blood. Louie Sam lifted his head at the 

commotion, but said nothing and showed no fear. I was 

certain now he couldn’t understand much English—he 

couldn’t know what was about to happen to him. Or if 

he did, he was the bravest person I’d ever seen. 

“Look at him, dumb as a brute!” Mr. Harkness 

shouted. 

I thought of speaking up about the suspenders, but 

I lost my chance among the rising calls for action. It 

was just like Father said—they wouldn’t listen. There 

was no arguing with them now as they spurred each 

other on. 

“Murdering dog!” called out Mr. Breckenridge. 

Then he spat on the boy. Louie Sam looked up at 

that, his eyes fierce with hatred. Mr. Osterman rode up 

to a giant cedar with a thick branch eight feet off the 

ground. 

“This’ll do,” he said. “Bring the rope.” 

Mr. Harkness trotted his horse up to Mr. Osterman. 

Mr. Osterman held his lantern up high to light the 

way for Mr. Harkness as he swung the rope once, then 

twice. On the third swing he tossed the rope. The 

noose dangled over the branch. Everyone fell silent 

at the sight of it. Mr. Harkness tied off the other 

82 83


end of the rope around the tree so the noose hung 

high, casting its shadow against the forest, while Mr. 

Breckenridge got down from his horse and grabbed 

hold of Louie Sam’s right leg, pulling it around so the 

boy was sitting side saddle. He took a length of rope 

and bound his feet to match his hands. Then he led 

Louie Sam’s pony under the tree branch. 

Mr. Moultray rode up close to the pony. He got 

hold of the noose and yanked it over the boy’s head, 

pulling the knot around so it was behind his ear. Now 

that Louie Sam got a close look at Mr. Moultray, he 

recognized him despite the black smudge and the 

streak of red war paint across his eyes. For the first 

and last time that night, Louie Sam spoke. 

“Bill Moultray,” he said. 

Bill Moultray’s eyes went wide with fright, like he’d 

been found out. The next thing I knew, he slapped the 

pony’s flank, sending him running out from under the 

boy. And then Louie Sam was up in the air, fighting 

and struggling against the rope around his neck, 

even though his hands and feet were bound tight. He 

looked monstrous and terrified, twisting and writhing 

as he fought. 

“For God’s sake!” cried Mr. Hopkins. “Somebody 

put an end to him!” 

Mr. Harkness raised his rifle. 

“No shots!” called Mr. Osterman. “The Sumas 

might hear!” 

Finally, Mr. Pratt rode up and raised the butt of his 

buffalo gun to Louie Sam’s head. I looked away, but I 

couldn’t stop my ears from hearing the blunt thud of 

wood meeting bone. When I looked up, Louie Sam 

was struggling no more. His body swung from the 

branch a few times, until at last he was still. His life 

was gone, but his fear was still there in his face for all 

to see, plain as day. 

Everybody was silent. Then Mr. Harkness let 

out a whoop. A few others joined him trying to 

raise a cheer, among them Mr. Osterman and Mr. 

Breckenridge. Me, I didn’t see what there was to cheer 

about. Mr. Moultray didn’t seem to, either. 

“Enough,” he said. 

He kicked his horse into a trot and headed down 

the trail toward home, not waiting for the other 

leaders. I made my way back to Father and Mae. 

Without a word, Father pulled me up behind him 

into the saddle. I kept my face buried in his back as he 

walked Mae past the hanging tree so I wouldn’t have 

to see Louie Sam again. But I saw him in my mind, 

anyway. I will see him there forever. 

84 85


Chapter Ten 

As we head south across the border into the 

Washington Territory, the men who had been 

cheering and hollering the loudest for the end of 

Louie Sam are silent. Once the deed was done, it was 

like nobody wanted to think about it anymore. We 

left him hanging from that cedar branch and we rode 

away. We want to get back to our normal lives, to our 

normal selves. 

Everything is more complicated than I thought it 

would be. I expected justice to feel good, but it feels 

tight and cold in the pit of my stomach. 

When we reach The Crossing, Mr. Moultray speaks 

to us. His face is somber and weighted down, like he 

doesn’t feel in a celebrating mood any more than I do. 

Or maybe he’s just tired. I know I am. Mr. Moultray 

tells the men that they did what needed to be done, 

and that they should be proud. But the next thing he 

says is that none of us should ever talk about what 

happened—not to our families, not to the sheriff, not 

to anyone. The Nooksack Vigilance Committee is 

henceforth a secret brotherhood. How can you have it 

both ways? If we’re supposed to be so proud of what 

we did to Louie Sam, then why are we keeping secrets 

about it? 

First light starts to show above the trees to the 

east as Father, Mae, and I follow the track along 

Sumas Creek to our mill and our cabin. From a 

distance, we see chimney smoke above the trees. Why 

does Mam have a full fire going at such an hour, when 

normally she would just be rising? Father gives Mae 

a kick. She trots ahead a little, but quickly falls back 

into a walk—like us, worn out from the night’s outing. 

Father kicks her harder. 

“Get up!” he says, his voice crusty and thick. He 

hasn’t used it since we left the hanging spot. 

Gypsy comes running to meet us, barking in a fury 

of excitement. When we leave the trees and our cabin 

comes into sight, we get another surprise. A woman is 

outside, pitching water from a bucket onto the ground. 

When she turns around, I see that she’s Agnes, the 

Nooksack squaw who was Bill Hampton’s Indian wife. 

“Agnes!” my father calls to her. “Where’s my wife?” 

Mae has picked up her pace, eager now that she 

knows her feed is close by. Agnes straightens up and 

waits for Mae to trot up to the cabin and for Father to 

rein her in before speaking. Her English is not good, 

despite living with a white man for all those years. She 

86 87


relies mostly on Chinook to make herself understood. 

“Bébe yuk’-wa,” she says. 

There’s the cry of a newborn from inside the cabin, 

making her meaning clear enough—while we were 

gone, the new baby arrived! Father leaps down from 

the saddle and tells me to see to Mae, then he barrels 

into the house. Agnes follows him into the cabin, slow 

and easy, like she lives here. Anxious as I am to see 

my new brother or sister, I feed and water Mae and 

Ulysses. I see from the way the two cows are shifting 

in their stall that they need milking, so I do that, too. 

After riding all night and being alone with too many 

thoughts, it feels good to keep my hands busy. 

By the time I go inside, the new baby already has a 

name. He is to be called Edward, after Mam’s father. 

Teddy for short. The baby and Mam are both asleep 

in my parents’ bed, behind a curtain they have rigged 

for privacy. I go around the curtain and take a peek. 

Teddy is bundled in Mam’s arms, looking no different 

to my eyes from any of my other brothers or sisters 

when they were born. I let the curtain fall and step as 

quietly as I can over to the table near the stove, where 

Annie is pouring tea for Father out of the old china 

pot that Mam brought from England. The boys come 

out from the back room, wiping sleep from their eyes. 

I tell John that he should have done the milking. John 

says he was up half the night bringing in firewood 

for the stove while Teddy got born. Father shushes 

us, so as not to wake Mam. It’s strange to see Agnes 

taking Mam’s place at the stove, a full-blooded Indian 

stirring the porridge just like a white woman would. 

Her face is cut deep with wrinkles, but she can’t be 

that old. 

“We owe you thanks, Agnes,” my father says 

quietly. He takes a long sip of the tea, even though it’s 

scalding hot. 

Agnes nods toward John. “Man mam’-ook cháh-ko 

ni-ka.” She seems sad, even when she smiles. 

“She means I went for her,” says John. “When 

Mam’s pains started, I didn’t know what else to do—or 

when you’d be back.” 

We all fall silent at that. I wonder if Agnes knows 

where we were last night, and what we were doing. 

She shows no curiosity, but John does. He whispers to 

me, “So what happened? Did you get him?” 

He says it with such eagerness that I want to smack 

him. I wish I could tell him right there and then about 

how complicated it is, but Mam is sleeping—and it 

doesn’t feel right to talk about Louie Sam in front of a 

native woman. 

“I’ll tell you later,” I say. 

Father gives me a sharp look and I remember that 

we’re not supposed to say anything at all. He takes 

another sip of tea. I take a seat at the table, and thank 

Agnes kindly when she puts a bowl of porridge in 

front of me. 

88 89


It’s Thursday, but nobody even talks about going 

to school today. After breakfast, Father heads straight 

away down to the mill. Agnes stays and kneads some 

dough so we’ll have fresh bread for the evening meal. 

Mam wakes up and Agnes brings her a bowl of 

yesterday’s bread softened in some warm milk. From 

behind the curtain on the other side of the room, I 

listen to Mam and Agnes talking in soft voices, but 

I can’t make out what they’re saying. Female talk, 

oohing and aahing over the new baby. I suppose 

it’s the same in any language. At the table, Isabel is 

singing softly to her dolly, pretending that she has a 

new baby, too. Annie’s peeling potatoes. Everybody’s 

calm. It’s nice. 

Once the bread is baked, Agnes says she’s going 

back home, to the shack she and her sons built in the 

woods a half mile up Sumas Creek, after they had 

to move out of the ferryman’s house at The Crossing 

when Mr. Hampton died. Without asking, she takes 

two of the fresh loaves with her. 

I go into the back room and lie down. I am so bone 

weary that I expect I could sleep standing up, but the 

minute I close my eyes I see Louie Sam hanging from 

that cedar, and the fear in his face. I open my eyes 

to make him go away and feel my heart racing. John 

comes into the room. 

“Tell me what happened,” he says. 

“We’re not supposed to talk about it,” I reply. 

“Says who?” 

“Says Mr. Moultray.” 

“Did you get Louie Sam?” 

“I can’t say.” 

“You did get him, didn’t you? Where is he now? 

Did they bring him to the jail in Nooksack?” 

I look at him. Can he really be that dumb? 

“He’s not in any jail,” I say. 

John studies me for a minute, and then he 

understands. 

“So you lynched him.” 

I know the word, but I haven’t heard anyone use it 

in connection with Louie Sam. All the talk I’ve heard 

has been about justice and vigilance. Lynched. It’s a 

rash word, harsher somehow than hanged. But it’s 

what happened. 

“Yeah,” I say. 

John watches my face again, and his own face 

changes. Some of the eagerness goes out of his 

expression. 

“Did he put up a fight?” 

“No … Yes, but only at the end.” 

“Well, did he say anything in his own defense?” 

“He hardly said anything. He was too scared.” 

“Hah! The coward.” 

“He wasn’t a coward,” I tell him. Then I add, 

because it seems like something that’s important to 

90 91


know, “He was just a kid.” 

“How old a kid?” 

“Thirteen. Fourteen at most.” 

This takes John aback. Then he says, “A murderer’s a 

murderer.” 

I don’t have a reply to that. I say, “Let me sleep.” 

Chapter Eleven 

I wake up at noon, edgy with the trembles of a bad 

dream. And then I remember it wasn’t a dream. All 

of us are worn out, between Father and me riding 

all night and the baby getting born. At noon we sit 

around the table eating cheese and bread, staying quiet 

so as not to wake Mam and the baby. None of us has 

much to say, anyway. 

In the afternoon, Tom Breckenridge’s father brings 

grain to be milled, but he doesn’t stay much longer 

than it takes for Father and me to grind the single 

sack of wheat he’s brought with him. I open the sluice 

gate to let the water rush in from the wheel and drive 

the runner stone, while Father empties the wheat 

into the hopper. Then I hurry down to the meal floor 

to collect the flour in the sack as it comes down the 

chute. From upstairs, I can hear Mr. Breckenridge 

repeating to Father what Mr. Moultray told us at The 

Crossing about keeping quiet—as though he thinks 

Father needs reminding. I wonder if the real purpose 

of Mr. Breckenridge’s visit is to deliver that message. 

92 93


Friday morning outside the school, while we’re 

waiting for Miss Carmichael to ring the bell, Pete 

refuses to speak to me, except to tell me that we 

Gillies are Indian lovers because Father spoke up in 

favor of letting Louie Sam stand trial. John and I 

deny it hotly, but Tom Breckenridge says it’s true—he 

heard the same thing from his pa. I think it’s curious 

how Mr. Breckenridge told Tom what happened, after 

making a special trip to our place to warn Father 

to keep quiet. Tom says that as Mr. Bell’s closest 

neighbors, it could just as easily have been them that 

Louie Sam attacked. Tom counts himself lucky that he 

and his family are still alive. 

“My pa says the only good Indian is a dead Indian,” 

Tom proclaims to the whole schoolyard. “We won’t be 

safe until every last one of them is wiped out.” 

Pretty soon, it seems that Pete and Tom have got 

the whole school agreeing with them about us being 

Indian lovers. Adding to our reputation is the fact 

that it was Agnes rather than a proper settler’s wife 

who helped bring my baby brother into the world. I 

try to explain to Pete and Tom that Agnes was closest 

at hand to our cabin, and that John didn’t know what 

else to do but fetch her, with Father and me gone 

and Mam crying out that the baby was coming and 

coming fast. But nothing I say matters. 

Pete is busy turning himself into some kind of hero, 

boasting to Abigail Stevens and the other girls about 

how he rode with the men on some very important 

business. He’s stepping around the vow we all took 

not to say anything. But seeing as how just about 

everybody’s father rode with the posse, everybody 

knows what happened, anyway, except for the lurid 

details—which Pete is pleased to provide, whispering 

them to the girls in a corner of the schoolyard. 

After Miss Carmichael calls us inside, Abigail 

comes up to me in the cloakroom. 

“Why are you letting Pete take all the attention, 

George?” 

“He can have it,” I tell her. 

“You know what he’s saying about you, don’t you? 

He says you and your pa were cowards out there.” 

“He’s a liar,” I say. 

“Then you better let folks know that,” she replies. 

Lately, Abigail seems more like a woman than a 

girl—and not just because her figure has rounded 

out. There’s a matter-of-factness about her, like she’s 

annoyed the other kids don’t see the way things are in 

the grown-up world as clearly as she does. Abigail has 

always been smart at school. Also, she has pretty eyes. 

“We were sworn not to talk about what happened,” 

I tell her. 

“Seems you’re the only one keeping that promise. 

My pa told my ma all about it. He said he thought 

your pa had a good point, about letting that Indian 

have his day in court.” 

94 95


“Then why didn’t your pa speak up?” I say. 

“How should I know, George? Was I there? And 

don’t go raising your voice to me when I’m trying to 

help you.” 

Outside, there is a sudden hullabaloo—shouting 

and hollering. Those of us who are indoors hurry out 

to the schoolyard to see what’s the matter. By the 

time Abigail and I get there, a crowd three deep has 

circled around two boys flying fists at each other. The 

crowd—girls as well as boys—is egging them on, 

sounding just like the posse did in the minutes before 

Louie Sam died. 

I push my way through to the front, and I see two 

things. The first is Pete, watching the fight with a 

stupid grin on his face. He’s also leading the cheer. 

The second thing I see is that one of the boys is my 

brother, John, and the other is Jimmy Bell. Jimmy’s 

half a head taller than John and has got the advantage 

of weight on his side. But John is a wiry scrapper and 

will never give up, which I know from wrassling with 

him myself. 

Jimmy gets John in a headlock with his left arm 

and starts punching his face with his right fist. 

“Give it to him, Jimmy!” yells Tom Breckenridge, 

standing at Pete’s side. 

I’m itching to run in and pull Jimmy off of my 

brother, but I know that if I do, John will never forgive 

me for saving him like that in front of everybody. 

Now Abigail is shouting, “Stop it, Jimmy! You’re 

hurting him!” 

Miss Carmichael is on the front porch of the 

schoolhouse, blowing her whistle for them to stop—to 

no effect whatsoever. John’s face is bloodied, his nose 

broken for sure. Annie and Will are across the circle 

from me. 

“Let go of him!” Annie calls to Jimmy. Then she 

sees me across the way. “George, make him stop!” 

But John manages to hook Jimmy’s leg with his 

foot. Jimmy falls hard on his back and John is on 

top of him, his small fists pounding into Jimmy’s big 

face—giving him back the beating that he just took. 

Now that John is winning, it’s safe for me to mix in. I 

hold off for a second or two, though, to give John his 

due revenge. I look over to Pete, thinking he might be 

wanting to rescue Jimmy, his more-or-less stepbrother. 

Pete has stopped shouting for blood, but I see he’s 

smiling a little—like he’s just as pleased to see Jimmy 

being pummeled as he was to see John in that spot a 

minute ago. 

I make my move. Striding forward, I grab hold of 

John by both his arms and drag him off of Jimmy. 

“That’s enough!” I say. 

John struggles to get free from me, but I can tell 

it’s mostly for show. He’s had enough. There’s blood 

running out of his nose, and he’ll have two shiners. 

The kids around us step back, loosening the circle they 

96 97


formed to watch the fight—those who a moment ago 

wanted a ringside view suddenly wanting to melt away 

into the background as Miss Carmichael descends 

from the porch, blowing her whistle. Her voice is 

tight and high when she demands to know, “What in 

heaven’s name is going on here?” 

“He called my ma a whore!” Jimmy cries out, 

staggering to his feet and pointing at John. 

“Only because you called Agnes one!” shouts John 

right back. 

“She’s just an Indian,” says Jimmy. “She doesn’t 

count.” 

John can’t keep quiet. “Agnes is nice! She helped 

Mam!” 

I think to myself, There’s our reputation as Indian 

lovers—set in stone. 

Abigail says, “Everybody knows your ma’s a whore, 

Jimmy.” 

Miss Carmichael is scandalized. “Abigail Stevens!” 

“Well, it’s true.” 

I notice that Pete Harkness gives Abigail no argument 

whatsoever in defense of Mrs. Bell. 

Miss Carmichael kicks John out of school for the 

rest of the day for fighting, but not Jimmy because 

she says his father just died and he deserves special 

consideration. But each boy is sporting a bloody nose, 

so she winds up sending them both home, anyway. 

John is in no condition to be walking all that distance 

alone, so I tell Miss Carmichael I’m going with 

him, and Will can walk Annie home later. To make 

up for missing another whole day of school, Miss 

Carmichael makes me take home a book by Ralph 

Waldo Emerson, her favorite writer, and tells me to 

memorize one of his poems for Monday. 

Mam, barely on her feet after having the baby, gets 

upset with John. His nose has swollen up fiercely by 

the time we get home and she says it will never look 

right again. But when she learns what the fight was 

about, that John was defending Agnes, she is more 

forgiving. She soaks a rag in hot water and makes a 

poultice for him to hold over his nose and his eyes. 

Father has little to say about the fight, other than 

that John should have kept his fists higher to protect 

his face. Since Wednesday night, he’s been quiet, 

preferring to spend most of his time alone in the mill 

instead of with the rest of us in the cabin. He barely 

pays attention to Teddy. With Father spending all his 

time in the mill, the chores fall to John and me. That’s 

fine with me. It feels good to keep busy, and I like 

spending the rest of the day away from people. 

Late in the afternoon, before John and I have to 

give the cows their evening milking, I settle myself in 

a quiet corner of the shed and open the book by Mr. 

Emerson to a poem called “Nature.” It’s full of fancy 

language, the gist of which is that God is all around 

98 99


us. That seems like a wrong-headed idea to me— 

everybody knows God is in Heaven. Isn’t Nature what 

leads us astray, like the snake tempting Eve with the 

apple? I thought Nature was what we sinners were put 

on earth to overcome, but here this poem seems to say 

that Nature is its own kind of god. I wish I could talk 

with Father about what it means, but remembering 

the scowl he wore when he came into the house 

for the noon meal warns me against it. He isn’t even 

talking to Mam, not very much. 

It rains all day Saturday. After supper, when 

Teddy and the younger kids have gone to bed and 

Father has taken a lantern back down to the mill, I 

find a moment alone with Mam. She’s sitting in the 

rocking chair we brought all the way from England. 

Her eyes are closed, but I can tell she’s awake from the 

way she’s rocking herself ever so gently. 

“Will you listen to this poem I had to learn?” I 

ask her. 

She opens her eyes, so weary that I think she might 

have been sleeping after all. 

“Aye, Georgie. Let me hear it.” 

I begin reciting, but when I get to the part— 

For Nature listens in the rose 

And hearkens in the berry’s bell 

To help her friends, to plague her foes, 

And likewise God she judges well. 

—I stop. Mam’s eyes have been closed again, her 

face soft while she’s been listening. Now she comes 

back to the world. 

“Is that the end of it?” 

“No. There’s more.” 

“Why did you stop?” 

“It doesn’t seem right, Nature judging God. God 

made Nature. Only God can judge.” 

“I suppose,” she says, all dreamy. 

It surprises me that she isn’t troubled the way I am, 

she being the one who insists we go to church every 

Sunday. 

“But it’s wrong,” I tell her. 

“It’s just a poem, George. A nice poem. You learned 

it well.” She eases herself up from the rocking chair. 

You can tell she’s stiff and sore. “Time to get to bed 

now, for both of us.” 

She takes a candle and moves slowly toward her 

bed, pulling the curtain across behind her. I watch 

through the gap as she reaches into Teddy’s cradle and 

pulls a blanket up over him. In the candlelight, her 

eyes shine and her smile is full of wonder. One thing 

I’ll say for Mr. Emerson’s poetry: Mam sure seems to 

like it. 

100 101


Chapter Twelve 

On Sunday morning, neither Mam nor Father 

seems to remember about Sunday school, and we 

children are not disposed to remind them. The day 

starts gray and cool, nothing like the previous Sunday, 

the day we found Mr. Bell’s body. Can it be that only 

a week has gone by? It seems like it all happened to 

somebody else, like in a story. 

I’m splitting wood in the yard when, late in the 

morning, we have a visitor. It’s Agnes’s son, Joe 

Hampton. Agnes has sent him over with a brace of 

quail, wanting to trade them for eggs and a quantity 

of flour. When Joe sees John’s shiners, he tells Mam 

there’s a paste his ma makes from yellow flowers to 

bring down bruises and he offers to fetch some. But 

before he does that, Mam insists on giving him a bowl 

of the barley soup she’s cooking for our lunch, which 

he eats outside, leaning against the paddock fence. 

Joe is a few years older than I am. His hair is long 

and wild and he’s dark-skinned like an Indian, but 

his eyes are blue from his father. He speaks English 

like a white man, but with a lilt he got from the way 

his mother’s people talk. As he eats, he watches me 

work, and I half watch him, feeling awkward about his 

presence. I’m mindful of having recently been called 

an Indian lover, and of now having one dining right 

here on my doorstep. 

“You’re George,” he says, after a few spoonfuls of 

the soup. 

“That’s right.” 

I set another log on the chopping stump. 

“I heard you rode with them the other night.” 

This to me seems disrespectful, an Indian 

questioning me about my business. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. 

I bring the ax down on the log, but my aim is 

off and instead of splitting it, I send it flying off the 

stump. I wish this hadn’t happened in front of Joe. As 

I bend over to pick up the log, he tells me, “People are 

talking. The Sumas are worked up about it.” 

I say, “The Sumas ought to acknowledge the fact 

that one of them is a murderer.” 

“What murderer would that be?” he asks. 

“You know what murderer.” 

He won’t let it go. “That’s just it. Louie Sam talked 

to his ma. He told her he didn’t do it.” 

This hits me. For one thing, I never thought about 

Louie Sam having a mother. For another, I’ve got 

that niggling feeling working at me again, making 

102 103


me wonder whether Father was right, whether the 

Nooksack Vigilance Committee should have let Louie 

Sam stand trial. Joe Hampton fixes me with a look, like 

he’s reading something in my face. I turn away quickly. 

“Of course that’s what his ma would say,” I tell him. 

“Anyway, the Sumas are just protecting their own.” 

“We don’t abide outlaws any more than you whites 

do. Look at Louie’s pa. When Justice Campbell 

showed the Sumas chiefs enough evidence, they 

handed him over for murder.” 

“For a Nooksack, you seem to know an awful lot 

about the Sumas,” I remark. 

“Louie Sam was my cousin,” he says. “His ma and 

my ma had the same chope—grampa.” 

I don’t want to know that. I don’t want to hear 

any more about Louie Sam, or about his family. 

I split another log, cleanly down the middle this 

time—hoping Joe will take the message that this 

conversation is at an end. 

“Thursday morning, Justice Campbell showed up at 

the Sumas village to tell the chiefs that a lynch mob 

had come up from the American side to take Louie 

away from Thomas York’s house.” I keep chopping 

wood, pretending not to listen. “Big Charlie and Sam 

Joe went with Justice Campbell to track the mob 

down the Whatcom Trail until just before the border. 

That’s where they found Louie, still hanging where 

he’d been left the night before.” 

My limbs cease to function for the moment and 

I have to let the ax rest on the block. Joe Hampton 

knows he’s gotten to me. He lets me sweat for a little 

before saying, “But I suppose you know all about that.” 

I’m done listening to him. I stack up the chopped 

wood in my arms and walk past him, heading for the 

cabin. Before I get to the door, Joe decides he’s got 

something else to tell me. 

“The People of the River are coming to Sumas from 

all over.” 

“What people?” 

“The People of the River. The Stó:lō. We’re deciding 

what should be done to avenge my cousin’s death.” 

“You don’t avenge justice,” I tell him. But I’m 

blowing smoke, and he knows it. 

“Let me tell you about justice, the Stó:lō way. 

Among our people, if you kill one of our kin, then one 

of your kin has to die. Doesn’t matter who. Any white 

man will do.” 

From the look in his eyes, I get the feeling he 

would be satisfied if that somebody was me, here and 

now. But in the next second he’s friendly again, telling 

me to thank Mam for the soup. He sets the bowl 

on the fence post and I watch him as he heads away 

down the path toward the creek. Then I go inside the 

cabin and stack the wood by the stove. I’m wondering 

exactly how many Indians are gathering at Sumas, 

and whether the Nooksack on our side of the border 

104 105


will stand with them—and how far the lot of them 

intend to go in pursuit of what they call justice. I’m 

wondering how safe my family will be if Louie Sam’s 

kin decide they’re coming across the border to settle 

the score. 

I have to tell Father that the Indians are gathering, 

that they’re thinking about attacking. I head down to 

the mill, but he’s not where I expect to find him, oiling 

the driveshaft or cleaning the mill stones as he would 

normally be doing when the mill is idle. It’s cold in the 

mill, and silent—except for the scream of gulls circling 

over our pond. Then I hear a tinkling noise outside. I 

open one of the shutters on the window, and there’s my 

father, perched on the ledge beside the waterwheel— 

doing his business into the pond. I decide to wait until 

he’s done to talk to him. But I’m too late. He’s seen me 

leaning out the window. 

“What in damnation do you want?!” he thunders. 

I have seen my father drunk only once before, when 

the baby girl that was born after Annie and before 

Isabel died. He was sad and quiet then. He’s angry now. 

“Leave me alone!” he yells. “All of ye leave me the 

hell alone!” 

I pull my head back inside so fast I knock it against 

the jamb. I see a liquor jug on his workbench, just like 

the jugs that Pete Harkness’s pa brings home from 

Doc Barrow’s Five Mile Roadhouse, and from which 

Pete and I stole a nip once or twice. I pull out the 

stopper and my eyes sting from the fumes. The jug is 

almost empty. I’m tempted to pour the rest of it out 

onto the floor, but I’m afraid of what Father will do in 

his present state if he finds out. 

I think about telling Mam about what Joe 

Hampton said, but it would be wrong to worry her 

right now, when she’s busy with the new baby. I decide 

to keep my fears about the Indians attacking to myself 

for now. 

When I return to the cabin, everybody is at sixes 

and sevens. Annie and Isabel are squabbling because 

Isabel won’t mind Annie and take her nap. Teddy 

won’t stop crying, and Mam is fretting about what’s 

gotten into Father just when she needs him the most. 

I daren’t tell her where he is, nor what condition he’s 

in. This being Sunday, I have a notion that I should 

step up in his place and read something calming from 

the Bible to all of them, but when I open the Good 

Book and start reading out loud from Deuteronomy, 

these are the first words I find: 

So shalt thou put away the guilt of innocent blood 

from among you, when thou shalt do that which is 

right in the sight of the Lord. 

“What’s wrong, George?” says Mam. “Keep 

reading.” 

106 107


“I can’t,” I tell her. 

Because when I read those words, all I can think 

about is Louie Sam. 

Chapter Thirteen 

Monday morning, Teddy is running a fever. Mam is 

worried enough to want to take him into town to see 

Dr. Thompson. But Father says he won’t go into town. 

He tells me to hitch Ulysses and Mae to the wagon 

and for me to take them, meaning I will miss yet 

another day of school—which is fine with me, given 

the name-calling I suffered on Friday and the heathen 

poem Miss Carmichael expects me to recite today. 

Our wagon is really just an open cart that we use 

for carrying supplies. The weather is drizzling and 

cold. Mam settles herself on the bench and holds the 

baby bundled against her in a blanket. Father puts an 

oilskin over her head and shoulders. For a moment, I 

think he’s going to tell me to move aside, that he will 

take Mam into town in my place. For a moment, I 

think Mam will ask him to. But neither one of them 

says anything. I whip the reins, not too hard, and tell 

Ulysses and Mae to geddup. Father stands in the rain 

watching us go. 

Mam stays silent while we ride, but I can feel 

108 109


her worry. I know she’s thinking about the little 

girl between Annie and Isabel. She called that baby 

Marie. She died when she was just a few days older 

than Teddy is now. I know she’s worrying about 

how she’s going to pay Dr. Thompson, too, because 

with customers seeming to spurn us and our mill all 

week—and with Father making visits to Doc Barrow’s 

Roadhouse—the jar in which Father keeps his 

earnings has been emptier than usual. 

Dr. Thompson’s office is at the back of an 

apothecary he runs on Nooksack Avenue, across from 

the new hotel that went up last year. The rain has 

turned the street to mud that sucks at the wagon’s 

wheels and slows Ulysses and Mae down. It seems that 

we will be trapped forever in this jostling cart with 

the misty rain coming at us sideways, but at last we’re 

there. I take hold of Teddy while Mam climbs down 

from the wagon. He feels like a feather in my arms. He 

mewls and cries, wanting Mam. I’m relieved when I 

put him back into her arms. She tells me to come into 

the apothecary with her out of the rain, because she 

doesn’t need two sick children on her hands. 

The shop has a whole wall of shelves filled with 

bottles and jars of various sizes, containing all sorts 

of powders and liquids. Mrs. Thompson is behind the 

counter, weighing something that looks like dried 

ragweed on a scale. She’s older than Mam and on the 

ample side. Well fed, as Father would say. 

“Good morning,” she says, without taking her eyes 

off the scale. When she finally looks up at Mam, she 

sees in her face that something is seriously wrong. She 

comes around to our side of the counter and takes the 

baby from her. Peeking under the blanket, she coos 

to him. 

“What a fine boy you have, Mrs. Gillies,” she says. 

But you can tell that she’s just trying to make Mam 

feel that everything is going to be all right—when, 

in fact, she thinks that Mam has good reason to be 

concerned. “Bring the baby and sit by the stove, dear. 

Dr. Thompson is with a patient. He shouldn’t be very 

much longer.” 

Mam thanks Mrs. Thompson and does as she 

says. There are two chairs, but I don’t feel right about 

sitting in the other one, dripping wet as I am and 

muddy from the splatter kicked up by the wagon’s 

wheels. Besides which, it’s too hot beside the stove, 

and I don’t like the medicine smell that fills the room. 

Anyway, all the time we were traveling from our farm, 

I was forming an intention of my own. 

“I’m going to see to Mae and Ulysses,” I say. 

“Don’t be standing out in the rain,” Mam warns me. 

I go outside and check briefly that Mae and Ulysses 

are hitched firmly to the post so that I won’t have told 

Mam an out-and-out lie, then I keep walking across 

the street to the new hotel. 

110 111


The Nooksack Hotel is as fancy as it comes in these 

parts, three stories tall with a spiral staircase winding 

upward from the lobby to the rooms. Mr. Hopkins, the 

manager, is behind a long raised counter. He peers at 

me funny through his eyeglasses when I walk in. I nod 

to him like I’m here on important business, which I 

am. I’m headed to a small office off the other side of 

the sitting area—the telegraph office. 

Since Father doesn’t want to hear about the Sumas 

Indians coming together just across the border, I 

have decided it’s my duty as a citizen of Whatcom 

County to tell somebody in authority about what Joe 

Hampton told me. Mr. Moultray would be my first 

choice, but he is located another two miles away at 

The Crossing. Mr. Osterman is closer at hand, here in 

town. The door is closed, but through the glass panel I 

can see him at his desk with his back to me, and I can 

hear him tap-tapping away at his machine. 

The telegraph works by sending little bursts of 

electricity down a wire strung from pole to pole to 

Ferndale, then Bellingham Bay, and from there all the 

way to California and beyond. The electricity is made 

inside a battery—a glass jar filled with copper and 

zinc and water that somehow starts a current. Then the 

operator uses a key to transmit the bursts of electricity 

in a code of dots and dashes. The code stands for the 

alphabet. For instance, in Morse code, the letter A 

is one dot followed by one dash, the letter B is one 

dash and three dots, and so on. I don’t know them all, 

though. At the receiving end, there’s another telegraph 

operator who understands the code and copies down 

the message that’s being sent, letter by letter. 

I know all this because Miss Carmichael once 

invited Mr. Osterman to the school to tell us about 

his job. It seemed to me to be about the best job a 

fellow could have, sitting at a fine desk all day sending 

and receiving important messages. It’s a job that 

earns respect, not the least because it’s modern and 

scientific. 

When Mr. Osterman stops tapping at the little 

black key and sits back in his chair, I knock on the 

door. I guess I’ve startled him, because he jumps a bit. 

But when he sees who it is, he waves me inside. He 

seems in a hurry though, like he doesn’t have time to 

talk to me. 

“What can I do for you, George?” he says. 

He straightens the papers on his desk while 

he talks. He keeps his office neat and tidy, like his 

trimmed moustache and his freshly laundered clothes. 

“There’s something you need to know, Mr. 

Osterman.” 

“Oh? What might that be?” 

“Joe Hampton says the Sumas are getting together. 

They’re thinking about getting even, about attacking, 

because of—” I remember in the nick of time Mr. 

Moultray telling us not to speak about what happened. 

112 113


“Because,” I say, knowing he’ll catch my drift. 

Of all things, Mr. Osterman smiles. 

“Does he now?” he says, acting like there’s nothing 

in the world to be concerned about. 

“Joe says their tillicums are coming from all up and 

down the Fraser River. He says …” I stop myself from 

speaking the forbidden name. “He says the boy told 

his mother that he was innocent.” 

This last piece of information makes Mr. 

Osterman’s smile vanish. His brow furrows. His hands 

stop tidying the papers on his desk. 

“He was lying, of course,” I add quickly, mindful of 

the poor reputation we Gillies have acquired of late, 

and wanting to show him that I am on the right side 

of things. 

“Who else have you told this to?” he asks. 

“Nobody, sir.” 

“See that you keep it that way. The last thing we 

need is a lot of scare talk.” 

“But, sir, they intend to kill one of us. Joe ought to 

know. He’s kin to Louie Sam—” I spoke the name! 

“The boy,” I say in a hurry, correcting myself, “he was 

some kind of cousin to Joe.” 

Mr. Osterman gets up from his chair and steps 

toward me, looking me in the eye. 

“Listen to me carefully, George. I know you want 

what’s best for your neighbors and for your family. I 

know you want to keep them safe.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“So don’t go around spreading that dead Indian’s 

lies about what happened. It just confuses people. 

Makes the Sumas think they got a case, when they 

got none. Tell your pa not to start spreading stories, 

either.” 

“But the attack—” 

“They won’t attack. I happen to know that the 

Canadian authorities are at that Sumas gathering at 

this very moment, talking them out of it.” He nods 

toward the telegraph key. “Nothing happens around 

here that I don’t know about. Now you get on to 

school, or wherever you’re supposed to be.” 

He turns his back to me and sits down at his desk. 

I know he wants me out of there, but there’s another 

reason I’ve come to see him. I’ve been thinking that 

maybe there’s a way I can earn a little money to help 

pay Dr. Thompson. 

“Mr. Osterman?” 

“What is it?” 

“Are you still looking for help?” 

He turns around in his chair. 

“Help with what?” he says. 

He’s irritated, and it rattles me. 

“Help repairing the telegraph line.” 

“What are you talking about, George?” 

“Like you were going to hire Louie Sam for.” 

My voice cracks as I say his name. I did it again! 

114 115


Mr. Osterman’s brow darkens like a gathering storm. 

I feel like a fool. I feel like running out of here before 

Mr. Osterman’s temper explodes in my direction. But 

the strange thing is, all of a sudden Mr. Osterman 

stops being mad. He’s friendly and nice. 

“Thanks for the offer, George, but when I took a 

good look at the line that day, I realized we can get 

by until the summer. That’s why there wasn’t any work 

for …” He doesn’t say the boy’s name. 

“But … you said you turned him away because you 

didn’t like the look of him.” 

At that, his temper flares. He raises his voice. 

“Don’t tell me what I said!” 

I feel myself go red. I’m standing there like a fool, 

not knowing what to say. Then he calms down a little 

and tells me, “I was mistaken about needing to hire 

that boy. I only regret that poor Mr. Bell paid the 

price. Go on now,” he says. “Git!” 

I head back through the hotel lobby and go 

outside, keeping my eyes to the ground, burning with 

embarrassment. Pride goeth before a fall. I went into 

the telegraph office all puffed up with my big news, 

and I’m coming out feeling like an idiot. Why did 

I think that anything Joe Hampton had to say was 

worth passing on to somebody like Mr. Osterman? 

Why did I ever bring up repairing the line? But I 

could have sworn that Mr. Osterman told Sheriff 

Leckie that he sent Louie Sam away because he was 

ill-tempered. I don’t remember him saying anything 

about him changing his mind and deciding there 

was no work for him, after all. I must have heard it 

all wrong. 

It’s raining harder now. Outside the hotel, there’s 

a small man in a long canvas coat tying off a horse 

at the hitching post, his face hidden under a widebrimmed 

hat. I turn my eyes away so that if it’s 

somebody else important, he won’t see me here. That’s 

when I get a good look at the horse. It’s Mr. Bell’s 

gelding, the one that Pete and I rode up to Canada. 

Now I can’t help myself from looking to see the man 

who’s riding him. Only it isn’t a man. It’s Mrs. Bell— 

Annette—Pete’s more-or-less stepmother. I guess 

somebody decided the horse should go to her. She 

looks me straight in the eye and smiles. 

“Howdy, George,” she says, with that Australian 

twang of hers. Her boldness comes across as unseemly. 

“Where have you been hiding yourself?” she asks me. 

I stumble for a reply. “Nowhere, ma’am.” Then, “I 

have to fetch my mother.” 

I reach the middle of Nooksack Avenue before I 

stop and glance back. I can see Mrs. Bell through the 

telegraph office window as she goes in to talk with Mr. 

Osterman. She’s heated up about something, pointing 

out the window. Mr. Osterman looks outside—directly 

at me! The next thing I know, he’s outside on the boardwalk 

in his shirtsleeves, despite the rain coming down. 

116 117


“George!” he calls to me. “On second thought, there’s 

no reason to wait on those repairs until summer. Come 

see me around noon on Saturday. I’ll get you started. 

How does a dollar and two bits a day sound?” 

It sounds like the best thing that’s happened in a 

long, long time. My heart takes a leap, I’m so excited. 

“I’ll be here!” I tell him. “Thanks, Mr. Osterman!” 

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Come prepared to work 

hard, now.” 

“I will!” 

I head over to meet Mam at the doctor’s office, 

suddenly walking on air. I must be in Mr. Osterman’s 

good books, after all, or he wouldn’t have given me the 

job. Maybe now we Gillies can start living down our 

reputation as Indian lovers. Maybe now we can all get 

back to the way things were, before. 

When I walk into the drug store, Mrs. Thompson 

is behind the counter handing Mam a bottle of Dr. 

Thompson’s special patented medicine to help ease 

Teddy’s fever. Mam has to ask Mrs. Thompson if she 

can pay for it next week, and Mrs. Thompson says 

all right. She’s nice about it, but I know Mam hates 

having to ask. Once we’re settled in the wagon and 

headed back out of town, I tell Mam not to worry, 

that soon I’ll have the money to settle our account. 

“And how might that be?” she asks. 

“Mr. Osterman’s paying me to check the telegraph 

line,” I reply. I’m so excited I could burst. But instead 

of being pleased she looks wearier still, like now she 

has one more thing to worry about. “What’s wrong?” I 

ask. “I thought you’d be happy.” 

“I am, George. I am. Just be careful how you tell 

Father,” she says. 

“Don’t you see, Mam?” I tell her. “The fact he gave 

me the job means he’s forgiven Father. Now everybody 

will be friends with us again.” 

I have seldom heard my mother speak in anger, but 

it bursts from her now. 

“Your father needs forgiving from God, and 

sometimes from me,” she says, “but never from those 

hooligans!” 

Hooligans! And not a word about me finding a 

paying job. I thought she would be pleased. 

“They’re not hooligans,” I tell her, “any more than 

Father and I are!” 

“You talk like you’re proud of what happened 

to that boy,” she hisses, wrapping her shawl tighter 

around the baby as though she needs to protect him 

from me. 

For a moment I can’t speak. I don’t know if I can 

keep my voice steady. 

“I’m not proud of it,” I say at last, and my voice 

breaks just as I feared. 

I’m aware of her looking over at me, but I keep my 

eyes straight ahead to where the motion of Mae’s and 

118 119


Ulysses’s hindquarters is blurred by tears. She reaches 

out her hand and squeezes my arm. 

“You’re a good boy, George,” she tells me. “I know 

you’re a good boy.” 

I wipe my nose on my sleeve, and Mam doesn’t 

remind me not to. I’m grateful for the drizzle that 

disguises the wet running down my cheeks. 

By the next morning, the tonic has made Teddy’s 

fever go down, but he’s still not feeding right. He 

sleeps all the time. Babies are supposed to sleep a 

lot, but Mam says they should wake up hungry and 

yelling for food, which Teddy does not. She is worn 

out with worrying. If Father is worried about Teddy, 

he doesn’t show it the way Mam does. I think I know 

why. Speaking for myself, I am not attached to Teddy 

the same way I am to my other brothers and sisters. 

If he’s going to die, I don’t want to feel bad, the way I 

did with Baby Marie. 

First thing at school on Tuesday, Miss Carmichael 

makes me recite that poem by Mr. Emerson she made 

me learn—in front of the entire class. Pete and Tom 

snicker, but Abigail tells them to hush up, and they do. 

On Wednesday, the boys invite me to play catch with 

them at the lunch break, like they normally would. The 

mill stays quiet all week, though, so maybe we Gillies 

haven’t been completely forgiven like I’d hoped. 

But it’s been a mild winter and the farmers are busy 

getting a head start on their spring wheat. Father has 

started ploughing, too, which keeps him occupied and 

improves his mood. I mind what Mam said and wait 

for the right moment to tell him about me working 

for Mr. Osterman. 

I’m in the shed milking on Thursday evening when 

Father comes in to hang up the plough for the night. 

I watch him take handfuls of oats from a sack and put 

them in a feed bag. 

“Ulysses is getting a treat tonight,” I say. 

“Aye, he’s earned it. We finished the lower field up 

to the creek.” 

“That’s good.” 

Father is on his way out of the barn with the feed 

bag, whistling softly. This seems as good a time as any. 

“I got a job,” I say. I keep pulling on the cow’s 

udders. He stops, turns back. I look up at him and tell 

him, “With Mr. Osterman.” 

He studies me for a long moment, but he isn’t mad. 

Not yet, at least. 

“What gave you cause to speak to Mr. Osterman?” 

“I went on Monday when Mam and I were to town, 

to tell him what Joe Hampton told me about the 

Sumas attacking us.” 

He peers at me. 

“About what?” 

“Joe says the Sumas are gathering … on account 

120 121


of what happened. But it’s all right. Mr. Osterman 

said not to worry about it, that he knows from 

the telegraphs coming through the line that the 

Canadians have got the situation under control.” 

“And why did you not think to tell your own father 

about this before telling Mr. Osterman?” 

“I tried,” I say, not wanting to tell him why I did 

not succeed. 

I wait for his anger, but it doesn’t come. For a 

moment, he seems unable to look at me. I tell him, 

“Mr. Osterman said not to tell anybody about the 

Sumas lest it starts a scare. He told me to tell you the 

same.” 

“Did he now?” 

“I told him about Joe saying Louie Sam was 

innocent, too.” 

Father takes a step toward me. “What’s that?” 

“Joe said Louie Sam told his mother he didn’t 

murder Mr. Bell.” 

“And Mr. Osterman told you to keep quiet about 

that?” 

“That’s right.” 

I can see that Father is thrown. 

“You’re to stay away from Mr. Osterman,” he says. 

“Do you ken me?” 

“But I’m working for him, repairing the telegraph 

line. He’s paying a dollar and two bits a day—enough 

to pay for the doctor, and Teddy’s medicine.” 

Father shakes his head. He’s building up steam. 

When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous. 

“You think I’m not capable of paying for the 

doctor?” 

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir! I mean …” Nothing is 

coming out right. “I want to help,” I say. 

He’s quiet for a long moment. He won’t look me in 

the eye. Then he says, “I appreciate that.” 

He goes out to give Ulysses his feed. Quickly, I 

pour the milk in my pail into the collecting barrel 

and follow him outside with a lantern. He’s inside 

the paddock scratching Ulysses’s ears while the mule 

eats from the bag of oats he’s holding up for him. 

Mae noses up to them, wanting her share. He pats her 

neck, but pushes her away. I know this much about 

how my Father thinks: rewards must be earned. 

“Why don’t you like Mr. Osterman?” I ask. 

“Who says I don’t like him?” 

“Father, why don’t you?” 

There’s a long pause. I’m taking a chance pressing 

the point, but I know that for some reason he is 

distrustful of Mr. Osterman. Maybe it’s the dim 

evening light that lets him admit that I’m right. 

“I heard a story about him,” he says. “Seems 

he spent a goodly amount of time drinking at the 

Roadhouse when he was younger, before he acquired 

respectability. One night, he and a mate by the name 

of John Quin drank corn whiskey ’til they passed out, 

122 123


so Doc Barrow put the two of them in a room to sleep 

it off. Only problem was, come the morning, Quin 

wakes up dead.” 

He gets a wry smile, but I don’t see what’s funny. 

“What killed him?” I ask. 

“That’s the question, isn’t it? Some people say it was 

the whiskey. But it’s curious how people seem to wind 

up dead around Bill Osterman.” 

“He’s nice to me,” I tell him. “Everybody looks up 

to him.” 

“You watch yourself around him. That’s all I have 

to say.” 

Ulysses has finished his oats. Father takes the feed 

bag into the shed, and I go into the house. Mam is in 

the rocking chair by the stove with Teddy in her arms. 

He’s sleeping again. 

“I told him,” I say. “About Mr. Osterman.” 

“What did he say?” 

“To be careful.” 

“Aye,” she says, pulling the blanket up around the 

baby’s head. “That’s always good advice.” 

Chapter Fourteen 

On Friday afternoon, there’s an event that the 

whole of the Nooksack Valley has been looking 

forward to for weeks and weeks, before the murder 

of Mr. Bell took everybody’s attention. The governor 

of the Washington Territory, Dr. William A. Newell 

himself, is coming to The Crossing all the way from 

the territorial capitol in Olympia to speak to the issue 

of statehood, at the behest of Bill Moultray. A dance 

is to follow in the hall above Mr. Moultray’s livery 

stable, which, truth be told, is the event that most 

folks have been counting the days toward, at least 

the younger folks. Before the murder business took 

hold, all Abigail Stevens and the other girls at school 

wanted to talk about was their new dresses and hair 

ribbons. 

It’s the view of most folks in the Washington 

Territory that statehood is long overdue. The federal 

government in that other Washington—the nation’s 

capital—argues back that we don’t have enough people 

in our territory to warrant becoming a state. But along 

124 125


with the Dakotas and Montana, we keep pushing 

for statehood anyway. It’s the nature of frontiersmen 

to want to rule themselves. We want to elect our 

governor, not have him appointed by the president 

of the United States, as he is now. And we want 

seats in the U.S. Senate, too, instead of our paltry one 

seat in the lower house. 

Friday at school, Miss Carmichael dismisses us 

early so we can all be front row center when the 

speeches begin over at The Crossing. By four o’clock, a 

lot of folks have turned up in the open space between 

Mr. Moultray’s store and his livery stable to listen 

to the bigwigs. The sun is shining and there’s a nice 

feeling of excitement in the air, as though everything 

is normal again. I scan the crowd for Father, and I feel 

happy when I spot him toward the back, talking with 

Mr. Stevens, Abigail’s father—as though we Gillies, 

too, are back to normal. 

Dave Harkness is in the crowd, and beside him 

stands Mrs. Bell. If she is aware of what people say 

about her behind her back, she doesn’t seem to care. 

She’s wearing a fancy hat and holding her chin up 

high, as though she wants folks to notice her— 

standing beside Mr. Harkness like they belong to 

each other, with or without the benefit of a preacher. 

I look over to where Pete Harkness is shining up 

to a couple of the girls from school. The girls are 

giddy at whatever it is he’s saying to them, giggling 

and carrying on. I wonder what special power the 

Harkness men have over women. Or maybe it’s the 

women who have the power over them. 

Abigail Stevens comes up beside me. 

“How do I look, George?” she asks me. 

I don’t know what to say. She looks pretty, like 

always, except today she’s wearing a bonnet like the 

grown-up women. Instead of braids, she has dark curls 

peeking out from under the brim. She bats her eyes. 

“You look nice,” I tell her. 

But that just makes her mad. 

“Is that all you got to say?” 

I don’t know what I said wrong. 

“You look very nice.” 

“For your information,” she says, “my mother 

ordered this hat all the way from Seattle.” She lifts 

the corner of her overcoat to show me the dress she’s 

wearing underneath. “It’s to match my new dress for 

the dance. You’re coming to the dance, aren’t you?” 

“I wasn’t planning on it …,” I say. 

I’m about to impress her with the fact that I can’t 

be up late tonight because I have a job working for 

Mr. Osterman starting in the morning when she hits 

me with the little purse she’s carrying, which also 

matches her new dress for the dance. 

“You are as slow as a fat toad on a hot day, George 

Gillies!” 

She stomps away. I’m thinking that maybe I should 

126 127


go after her and find out why she’s suddenly acting 

crazy as a loon, but at that moment several men come 

out of Moultray’s Store, among them Mr. Moultray 

and Mr. Osterman—and a man I take to be Governor 

Newell. Chairs have been set up for them along the 

boardwalk, facing the crowd. Governor Newell is old, 

tall, and lanky, with big mutton chops. Father says 

he’s a Yankee easterner through and through—the 

president’s man. Father doesn’t mean that as flattery. 

Mr. Moultray calls for the crowd to quiet down. 

Like I say, he’s a natural leader. When he speaks, 

people listen. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” starts Mr. Moultray. “I 

thank you for coming out on this fine afternoon to 

demonstrate to Governor Newell the fervor with 

which we Washingtonians regard the imminence of 

statehood.” 

There’s a burst of cheering and applause. Miss 

Carmichael, who has managed to find a spot directly 

in front of Mr. Moultray, is clapping so hard she 

knocks her bonnet crooked. 

“It is our hope that Governor Newell will 

communicate that fervor to the president in 

Washington, D.C. For it is not a question of if, but 

when the people of this great territory assume their 

rightful place amongst the republics of the United 

States of America!” 

The crowd is even louder now. Miss Carmichael’s 

bonnet has flown right off, held on only by the ribbons 

tied under her chin. Mr. Moultray waits for folks to 

settle down before continuing at length in the same 

vein, talking a lot about destiny and God’s will. This 

whole time, Governor Newell is sitting still and stonefaced 

in his chair. For all I know he’s fallen asleep with 

his eyes open. At last Mr. Moultray finishes speaking, 

and it’s Governor Newell’s turn. The governor looks a 

little startled when Mr. Moultray speaks his name—so 

maybe he was sleeping. He takes his time getting up 

from his chair. 

“Good afternoon,” he begins. 

The crowd is still, wondering what he’ll say next— 

how, after Mr. Moultray has just finished making such 

a strong case for statehood, he could have the audacity 

to tell us we’re not yet ready. Before he speaks, he digs 

into his coat pocket and brings out a folded piece of 

paper. He opens it up. It appears to be a cable. 

“I have here,” he says, “a telegraph from Attorney 

General Davis in Washington, D.C., dated a little 

over a week ago, on Thursday, the twenty-eighth of 

February. It pertains to an event that took place at the 

hands of certain individuals from the Nooksack Valley 

on the preceding day.” 

The twenty-eighth is Teddy’s birthday. It’s also 

the day after the hanging of Louie Sam. I glance to 

Mr. Moultray and Mr. Osterman, seated behind the 

governor. From the way Mr. Osterman’s shifting in his 

128 129


chair, it looks like this is one telegraph our telegraph 

man knows nothing about. And Mr. Moultray looks 

peaked all of a sudden. It’s the same look he wore when 

Louie Sam told him he was going to fix him. I flash to 

a memory of Mr. Moultray’s hand making contact with 

that pony’s hindquarters. I see bound legs thrashing in 

midair. My nice normal feeling is chased away. 

The governor proceeds to read the telegraph to 

the crowd. 

“‘I am requesting in response to a communication 

from Her Majesty’s Government in Canada that you 

instruct your territorial police to watch out for and 

arrest members of a lynch mob charged with hanging 

a Canadian Indian on Canadian soil near Sumas 

Prairie, British Columbia, pending the Canadians’ 

application for extradition proceedings.’” 

The crowd goes dead silent. The governor looks out 

over the assembled folk of the Nooksack Valley like a 

judge about to pass sentence. 

“Pursuant to these instructions,” he says, “I have 

directed Mr. Bradshaw, the prosecuting attorney of 

the Third Judicial District in Port Townsend, to act 

immediately and vigorously against the leaders of this 

lynch mob so that they can be extradited to Canada, 

where they will stand trial for their crimes.” 

Mr. Moultray and Mr. Osterman sit gobsmacked. Or 

maybe I just think they must be, because I am for sure. 

“As to the issue of statehood,” says the governor, 

“perhaps that is best left to another day.” 

Having said his piece, Governor Newell stands 

above us on the boardwalk, as though expecting the 

leaders of the Nooksack Vigilance Committee to step 

forward and face judgment this very moment. But 

nobody moves—except Miss Carmichael, whose hand 

goes to her mouth as she utters a small cry. I look 

around to see if Father is still here. He’s at the back 

where he was earlier, standing beside Mr. Stevens. 

Both of their heads are bowed, eyes hidden by their 

hat brims. Everybody is silent—until an angry voice 

booms out of the crowd. 

“We was promised a talk on us becoming a state, so 

let’s hear it!” 

We all crane our necks to see that the speaker is 

Dave Harkness. His face is all red with fury. Annette 

Bell is standing there beside him frowning, with 

her arms crossed tight. She says something to Mr. 

Harkness, who then pipes up again. 

“If the United States Government has got 

something to say to us, they can come say it to our 

faces instead of sending their hired mouthpiece to do 

it!” he says. 

The crowd, so silent a moment ago, sends up 

a cheer. People are hollering about freedom and 

democracy, and about how no Washingtonian got 

to cast a vote to elect Governor Newell to office, so 

he has no rightful place messing in our business and 

130 131


telling us what to do. Up on the boardwalk, Governor 

Newell sputters something about how we settlers are 

ignorant rabble unfit to govern ourselves, which makes 

the crowd angrier still. Mr. Moultray is on his feet 

trying to calm everybody down, but he’s not trying 

very hard. When a rock whizzes by the governor, close 

enough to ruffle his mutton chops, Mr. Moultray 

whispers something to the men who came with him 

from Olympia, who then hustle the governor into 

Moultray’s Store. Mr. Moultray turns to the crowd 

and starts speechifying. 

“Fellow citizens of Whatcom County,” he says from 

his perch on the boardwalk. “Surely the Governor can 

not but help to have comprehended how unwavering 

is our quest for democracy!” 

The crowd sends up another loud cheer. I can’t 

believe how fast the subject has gone from the 

hanging of Louie Sam back to statehood. I can’t 

believe how the men in the crowd—most of whom 

rode with the posse that night—don’t seem worried 

about what Governor Newell just said about bringing 

the leaders to justice. By my count, all five leaders of 

the posse are present—Mr. Harkness, Mr. Osterman, 

Mr. Breckenridge, Mr. Hopkins, and Mr. Moultray 

himself, who at this moment is working folks up into 

a frenzy of hollering for their rights. 

We see no more of the governor. In the crowd, I 

hear people proclaiming about how Bill Moultray 

showed the president’s man a thing or two. The nerve 

of him, coming here and reading that telegraph! From 

the way they talk, it’s like the right to statehood has 

somehow become the same thing as the right to hang 

Louie Sam, though in my mind they are not the same 

at all. The first is right and fair. But the hanging … if 

folks believe so strongly it was the right thing to do, 

then why aren’t they willing to step up to the governor 

and tell him so? 

After a while, the crowd starts to break up. Lots 

of folks are staying around for the dance later and 

have brought baskets of food for their dinners. I see 

Abigail Stevens sitting in a wagon with her parents 

and her little sisters, eating a sandwich. I think about 

going over to patch it up with her, to maybe even 

ask her for a dance if I stay for a little while, but the 

thought of it makes me break out in a sweat. I head 

over to Father, who is untethering Ulysses and Mae 

from a post outside the livery stable. John, Will, and 

Annie are already seated in the bed of the wagon. 

“Are you coming home with us, George?” asks 

Father. 

“He’s too busy making eyes at Abigail,” says John. 

I snarl at him. “Mind your own business, John.” 

Father gives John a look that makes him hold his 

tongue. 

“Stay if you want to,” he says. 

132 133


I can see Father’s holding back from smiling. It’s 

downright humiliating. I climb up into the wagon 

beside him without saying anything at all, which is 

enough said. Father slaps Ulysses and Mae with the 

reins and we start off jostling toward home. After a 

while, my thoughts stray back to the governor. I ask 

Father, “Do you think he means what he says about 

punishing the leaders of the Vigilance Committee?” 

Father answers low, so the kids in the back 

won’t hear. 

“He can mean it all he wants. What he intends to 

do about it with the whole valley vowed to secrecy is 

another question altogether.” 

“Do you think they ought to be punished?” 

Father shoots me a cautioning look. I hold his gaze. 

I want to know. 

“Aye,” he says finally. “Aye, I do.” 

Chapter Fifteen 

I wake early Saturday morning, so I decide to 

put the time to good use before I’m due to go see Mr. 

Osterman. I’m fishing for trout in the creek at a good 

spot I know upstream from the mill. It’s chilly this 

early, but the sun is shining and you can feel spring 

just around the corner. After a few minutes I feel a big 

tug on my line. I see a brown back fin crest before the 

fish swims back down into the water, taking my line 

with him. He’s big, maybe a five-pounder. I give him 

his head for a bit, then slowly I reel him in, feeling 

for just the right amount of tension to keep him on 

the hook. When he gets close to the shore, he gets an 

inkling that he’s being played and makes a run for it. I 

know that’s my do-or-die moment, so I give the line a 

big yank—and pull the trout right up onto the shore. 

He’s flopping around in the grass like a demon before 

I take a rock and end it for him. 

“He’s a beaut!” 

I spin around, taken by surprise. Who should be 

sauntering along a deer path but Joe Hampton. He’s 

134 135


got a fishing pole with him that must have belonged 

to his pa—the Indians usually use traps and spears 

to fish. 

“Mind if I join you?” he says. 

I am not in a position to say no—neither of our 

families claims this stretch of the creek, and in fact we 

are closer to his shack than to our cabin. 

“Suit yourself,” I say. 

He digs in the bank for a worm, which he hooks 

and then casts into the water. We sit in the grass 

twenty feet from each other, tugging at our lines, 

listening to birds sing. I am dying for him to tell me 

about what happened with his tillicums across the 

border. He stays quiet, making me speak first. 

“When did you get back?” 

“Couple of days ago.” 

He falls back into silence. I see he means to make 

me work for crumbs of information. I decide to 

surprise him with some of my own. 

“I hear the Canadian Government has been 

calming your people down.” 

“If you mean they sent an Indian agent in, that’s 

true. Patrick McTiernan. But he came because the 

Stó:lō asked him to come.” 

I don’t like his attitude, like he’s always got the 

upper hand. 

“So are they attacking or not?” I challenge him. 

“We thought about it. There was something like 

two hundred people there. We talked all day and 

all night about what should be done. Some people 

thought we should come across the border and hang 

the first sixty-five Americans we came across, that that 

would be a nice round number to even the score for 

an innocent boy hanged. But most people thought it 

would be enough to take the first white man we found, 

carry him back to the hanging tree where Louie Sam 

died and string him up. An eye for an eye.” 

At that moment I get another bite on my line. 

I pull it up. It’s only a catfish, but I’m glad that the 

business of landing it gives me a reason to turn 

my face away from Joe, because the picture of two 

hundred angry Indians coming over the border to 

hang sixty-five of us, or even one of us, is giving me 

the willies. I keep my back to Joe as I crouch down to 

unhook the fish. 

“So what did the Indian agent say to that?” 

“He wasn’t big on that idea,” says Joe. “He wanted 

us to think twice about starting a feud that could wind 

up in a full-fledged war. Even though it’s plain as the 

nose on your face that we didn’t start it.” 

“So how was it left then?” 

“There was one thing that everybody could agree 

on. There has to be an investigation, to figure out who 

really killed Jim Bell.” 

Words start in my mouth to deny Louie Sam’s 

innocence, but I say nothing. Joe Hampton gives me a 

136 137


satisfied look, like I’ve just admitted that Louie Sam is 

not the culprit. 

“The chiefs agreed not to bring a raiding party 

across the border. They sent the people back to their 

home villages. They’re leaving it up to the Canadian 

law to find the murderers.” 

“Murderers. You think more than one person killed 

Mr. Bell?” I ask. 

He looks at me like I’m some kind of idiot. 

“I’m talking about the murderers of Louie Sam,” he 

says. “If it was up to me, every last murdering son of 

a bitch that rode with that lynch mob would pay for 

what they done.” 

He keeps looking at me, as if to say that he knows 

that I’m one of them. I turn away and throw the 

catfish back into the creek. I watch it swim down into 

the muddy depths, all the while feeling Joe Hampton’s 

eyes hooking into me. A murderer. Is that what he’s 

saying I am? 

I carry the trout home so Mam can fry it for the 

noon meal. All the while I’m walking, I’m thinking. I 

want to believe that Louie Sam murdered James Bell. 

I want to believe it, but I have so many questions. I 

keep seeing him in my mind, at the moment when 

Mr. Moultray put the rope around his neck. I see the 

expression on his face—scared to death, but angry, too. 

If he was guilty, he would have acted guilty. Wouldn’t 

he? I keep thinking about the fact that Louie Sam 

was wearing a pair of suspenders when they hauled 

him out of Mr. York’s farmhouse. I wish I knew what 

happened to the suspenders we found in the swamp. 

I would like to see for myself whether they’re mansized 

or boy-sized. If they were man-sized, then it 

would have to follow that maybe it wasn’t Louie Sam 

running away through the swamp. But who was it 

then? And whoever it was, was that the person who 

shot Mr. Bell? 

When I reach the cabin, I give the trout to John 

to clean. He complains about it, but I have to be on 

my way into Nooksack to meet Mr. Osterman at the 

appointed time. For myself, I take bread and two boiled 

eggs to eat as I walk. I am not about to ask Father if I 

can take Mae. Since I told him about my job repairing 

telegraph poles, he has said nothing more to me about 

it. Mam is pleased there will be a little more money, 

but she’s worried about what kind of work I’ll be doing, 

and how dangerous it will be. I’m wondering about 

that, too. But Teddy’s medicine is almost used up. If 

Mr. Osterman gives me a day’s wages today, I will have 

more than enough to settle Mam’s account with Dr. 

Thompson for the last bottle, as well as to purchase a 

new one to bring home with me. 

When I reach the Nooksack Hotel, the door to 

the telegraph office is open, but Mr. Osterman is not 

138 139


at his desk. I knock on the door, thinking that maybe 

he’s in there, but hidden from my view. There’s no 

answer. I am unsure what to do, whether to go in and 

wait for him, or to stand out here in the lobby of the 

hotel. I look across to Mr. Hopkins, thinking to ask 

him if he knows Mr. Osterman’s whereabouts, but he 

is busy looking after a red-headed man whom I guess 

to be a hotel guest. I look from that man’s mud-caked 

boots to his worn buckskin coat and I wonder how he 

has the money to stay in such a fancy place. Now Mr. 

Hopkins is peering at me over his spectacles, looking 

me up and down in my fish-stinking dungarees and 

jacket, like between me and the red-haired man, he’s 

had enough of varmints like us dirtying up his nice 

hotel. I’m expecting him to tell me any minute now to 

go wait outside. 

“I’ve got business with Mr. Osterman,” I tell him. 

“What business have you got?” 

“He hired me,” I say, and add for emphasis just in 

case I haven’t made my point, “I’m working for him.” 

The red-headed man turns around and gives me 

a look. He throws me a friendly smile, then picks up 

his beaten-up valise and starts climbing the spiral 

staircase to the rooms upstairs. 

“Go wait in the telegraph office,” Mr. Hopkins 

tells me. 

I decide that must be what Mr. Osterman intended 

for me to do all along. 

A quarter of an hour goes by. I’m getting the 

fidgets just standing in the middle of the room 

waiting. There’s a fine leather chair beside the fireplace, 

but I don’t feel right sitting in it in my smelly work 

clothes. The oak desk chair, on the other hand, has a 

cushion I could remove. Also, it’s a swivel chair. I have 

never in my life sat in a swivel chair. 

I peek outside into the hotel lobby to see if there 

is any sign of Mr. Osterman. There is none. I lean 

across the desk and look out the window into the 

street. It’s silent as the grave out there. So I remove 

the cushion from the swivel chair and I sit down. 

I swing myself a little to the left, then a little to 

the right, imagining what it must be like to be the 

telegraph man. I place my finger on the small black 

key that Mr. Osterman uses to send messages. I’m 

tempted to give a tap or two, but I worry that I 

might wind up sending a message to some other 

telegraph man down the line. 

I don’t mean to stick my nose into telegraph office 

business, but there in front of me among the papers on 

the desk I can’t help but see a newspaper, and in that 

newspaper a headline leaps out at me—“The Sumas 

Tragedy.” The newspaper is the British Columbian, 

published across the border in the town of New 

Westminster. The story is all about the hanging of 

Louie Sam, and the meeting of the Canadian Indians 

at Sumas that Joe Hampton went to. I can’t believe 

140 141


I’m reading about us in the newspaper, like we’re as 

famous as Wild Bill Hickok! 

Deploring the lynching of fourteen-year-old 

Louie Sam as an illegal act, Indian agent Patrick 

McTiernan promised local chiefs that the Dominion 

Government will do everything in its power to 

bring those who are responsible to justice. 

British Columbia Premier William Smithe has 

sent an appeal to Prime Minister Sir John A. 

Macdonald in Ottawa, who has demanded that 

officials in Washington D.C. and in the Washington 

Territory identify the leaders of the American 

lynch mob. 

“Out of my chair!” 

Mr. Osterman is standing in the doorway, red-faced 

with anger. I leap up so fast I almost make the swivel 

chair fall over. 

“Mr. Hopkins said to wait in here …,” I stammer 

like a fool. 

“That means wait, not snoop.” 

Mr. Osterman crosses to his desk. He sees what 

I was reading, snatches up the newspaper. He’s 

glaring at me. All I can think to say is, “He was only 

fourteen.” 

“You never mind how old anybody was.” 

“Are we in trouble with the law?” 

“Just keep your mouth shut and everything’s going 

to be fine.” 

“But the Canadians—” 

“To hell with the damned Canadians!” 

Mr. Osterman yells so loud that the whole hotel 

must be able to hear him, even the guests upstairs. 

I remember what my father said about him finding 

respectability only lately, like he wasn’t always 

respectable. I wonder if I’m catching a glimpse of his 

previous self. But he calms down a bit, maybe because 

he’s worried other people might hear. 

“I am sick and tired of people sticking their noses 

where they don’t belong—and that includes you.” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Osterman.” 

“Did I make a mistake offering you this job, 

George?” 

That makes me panic. 

“No, sir!” I tell him. 

“Can I rely on your discretion?” I’m not sure what 

he means by that. It must show, because then he says, 

“Can I count on you to do what’s right, to be a loyal 

citizen of Nooksack?” 

“Yes, sir. No question.” 

He eyes me a moment longer, like he’s making up 

his mind about me. 

“All right, then. You just do as you’re told, and we’ll 

get along fine.” 

142 143


“Yes, sir,” I say. 

I’m so relieved, I want to cry—but I keep my face 

calm, to show him he can trust me to keep my word. 

He turns to a shelf of books and takes down a scroll, 

which when he spreads it out on the desk turns out to 

be a map of the telegraph line. He jabs his finger at 

the section of line that runs from the far side of the 

Nooksack River—the part that runs west and south 

toward Ferndale. 

“I want you to start here and work your way west. 

Mr. Harkness will let you ride the ferry across the 

river for free.” 

I don’t stop to think before I ask, “But what about 

the stretch around Mr. Bell’s cabin?” 

He brings the flat of his hand down hard on the 

desk. “Did you or did you not just promise me to do as 

you’re told!” 

“I did! I’m sorry! I will!” 

I’m kicking myself like crazy. Why can’t I learn to 

keep my big mouth shut? He rolls up the map, his face 

a fury. I’m sure he’s about to tell me I’m fired before I 

even begin. But after a minute, he says, “Does your pa 

own a handsaw you can use?” 


I’m thinking that asking Father to allow me to take 

it will be a hazard, but I am on such thin ice with Mr. 

Osterman that I am not about to tell him “no.” 

“Good. Your job is to cut back the underbrush 

growing up around the poles, to keep it away from the 

wire.” 


“You check the pole for rot, top to bottom, and 

for damage from insects and birds. Mr. Moultray will 

supply you with pitch for patching. Tell him to put it 

on my account.” 


I want to know how I’m supposed to climb up the 

poles, but I’m afraid to ask in case I look dumb. 

“A day’s work is dawn to dusk. Get an early start 

tomorrow. You can come by here for your wages on 

Monday.” 

So I won’t be paid today, not even tomorrow— 

never mind that tomorrow is Sunday and I’ll have 

to miss church again. But I am in no position to 

complain about working on the Sabbath, nor to ask 

Mr. Osterman for the money in advance. 

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Thank you, sir.” 

I leave the hotel down-hearted and cross the 

street to Dr. Thompson’s drug store. Mrs. Thompson 

is behind the counter, talking with a customer. The 

customer is Mrs. Stevens, Abigail’s mother. They greet 

me with smiles. It makes me happy that not all of 

Nooksack is against us Gillies. 

“How’s the new baby?” Mrs. Thompson asks me. 

“Still sickly.” 

144 145


Mrs. Thompson looks worried for us. So does Mrs. 

Stevens. 

“Winter babies have a hard time of it,” she says, 

“even if the winter is mild.” 

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” Mrs. Thompson 

tells me kindly. 

She goes back to wrapping Mrs. Stevens’s 

purchases, continuing the conversation they were 

having when I came in. 

“I heard he was planning to sue, for estrangement 

of affection,” says Mrs. Thompson. 

Mrs. Stevens raises her eyebrows and clucks her 

tongue. 

“What do these men see in that woman?” she says. 

“A lonely man is easily misled,” pronounces Mrs. 

Thompson. 

“How far misled is the question,” says Mrs. Stevens. 

Mrs. Thompson drops her voice to a whisper. 

“I can’t believe he would go that far.” 

Mrs. Stevens shakes her head sadly. 

“Susannah must be turning over in her grave,” she 

replies. 

I know who they’re talking about. Susannah must 

be Susannah Harkness, Pete Harkness’s ma, who died 

three years back. And “that woman” can be no other 

than Mrs. Bell. 

Mrs. Stevens says good-bye to Mrs. Thompson and 

leaves the store, telling me to give her regards to Mam. 

“Now then,” says Mrs. Thompson to me, “it was the 

fever tonic Dr. Thompson ordered for the little one, 

wasn’t it? That’s seventy-five cents.” 

She turns and takes a bottle of it from the shelf 

behind her and sets it on the counter. She’s waiting for 

her money. I’m standing there with my tongue tied. 

“Could I pay you on Monday, ma’am? For both 

bottles?” 

She’s frowning a little now. I’m afraid that we 

Gillies have reached the end of her charity. 

“That’s two bottles on your account. Are you sure 

you’ll have the money then, George?” 

“Yes, ma’am! I’ve got a job, working for Mr. 

Osterman.” 

She gives me a queer look. 

“And what might you be doing for Mr. Osterman?” 

“Repairing poles.” 

“Do your parents know about this?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“And they approve?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

She smiles, but her smile is tighter than before. She 

pushes the bottle toward me. 

“All right, then, George. I’ll see you on Monday.” 

Mam is so grateful to me for bringing the medicine 

that she gives me a slice of apple pie when I get home. 

She isn’t happy about me spending all day Sunday 

away from home missing church and all, but she says 

146 147


that sacrifices must be made. She’s only sorry that it’s 

my immortal soul that’s doing the sacrificing. It’s quiet 

in the house for once. John and Will are out in the 

fields with Father, and Annie has Isabel in the yard 

teaching her to dance—though she herself doesn’t 

know a waltz from a two-step. Teddy is awake in his 

cradle by the stove, but he’s not crying or fussing. He’s 

just lying there. Mam gets her mending basket and 

sits at the table with me while I eat. 

“Mam, what’s ‘estrangement of affection’?” I ask. 

“Why would you want to know such a thing?” she 

asks me back. 

“I heard Mrs. Thompson say it. She was talking 

about Mr. Harkness, and Mrs. Bell.” 

I see in Mam’s face that a penny has dropped. 

“Was she?” she says. 

Suddenly, she’s concentrating hard on the hole in 

the sock she has stretched over her hand. 

“Tell me,” I say. “What does it mean?” 

She stays quiet. 

“Mam, I’m fifteen. I need to know about the 

world.” 

Now she looks up at me. She has a sad smile. 

“Aye, so you do,” she says. Then, “ ‘Estrangement of 

affection’ is when somebody comes between a man and 

a woman who are married, or engaged to be married.” 

“And you can be sued for that?” 

“Aye, you can.” 

Now I’m starting to understand. 

“So … Mr. Bell wanted to sue Mr. Harkness, for 

coming between him and Mrs. Bell?” 

Mam’s interest perks up. 

“Is that what Mrs. Thompson said?” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s who she was talking about.” 

“Well, then … yes. I suppose that in Mr. Bell’s 

mind he had cause to sue Mr. Harkness.” 

I dig my fork into the pie and swallow another bite. 

We sit together in silence for a bit, Mam sewing, and 

me thinking that I never knew before there were such 

bad feelings between Mr. Bell and Mr. Harkness. But 

then, how could there not have been? 

148 149


Chapter Sixteen 

John is doing the milking Sunday morning when 

I come into the shed. I take Father’s handsaw down 

from its nail. John is watching me while he milks. 

“Did you ask him if you can take that?” he wants 

to know. 

“Why don’t you mind your own business, John?” I 

say, because the truth is I didn’t ask Father. I’m hoping 

I can return the saw before he notices it’s missing. I put 

it in a knapsack with the bread and cheese that Mam 

has given me, and set out along the track toward The 

Crossing with the sun barely peeking over the trees. 

This is the second Sunday since Mr. Bell died. By 

the time I reach the remains of his cabin, the sun is 

high enough to send sparkles off the frosty rime that’s 

spread over the charred timbers like white moss. It’s 

almost pretty. I haven’t had breakfast yet, so I stop and 

eat some of the bread and cheese. While I chew I walk 

the length of the ruins. Kids have started talking at 

school about this stretch of the track being haunted 

by Mr. Bell’s ghost, but the place doesn’t feel haunted 

to me. It just feels lonely. It always felt lonely, though, 

even when Mr. Bell was alive. 

I come to the spot between what used to be his 

store and his kitchen—the spot where we found his 

body—and I wonder what it was about him that 

made his wife and son hate him so. But did she hate 

him enough to want him dead? Is that what Mrs. 

Thompson and Mrs. Stevens were driving at? It 

doesn’t seem possible that we have a murderer living 

right here in our midst. But if it’s true that Louie Sam 

didn’t kill Mr. Bell, then somebody else must have 

done it. I set out walking again. My mind is full of 

such thoughts all the way to The Crossing—about Mr. 

Bell hating Mr. Harkness for stealing his wife away, 

and Mrs. Bell hating her husband all the more for the 

trouble he was causing her and Mr. Harkness. I just 

don’t know what to believe. 

When I reach Mr. Moultray’s store, it’s closed. In 

the livery stable I find Jack Simpson, the man the 

posse sent ahead to sneak into Mr. York’s farmhouse. 

He tells me to give him a minute and he’ll get the 

pitch I need for the repairs from the supplies shed. 

I watch him feed and water the last of the horses. 

Jack’s a friendly type with a quick smile, though he 

smells bad from having no mother or wife to wash his 

clothes or tell him to take a bath. He’s close enough to 

my age that I feel like I can ask him a question. 

“What do you make of Governor Newell saying 

150 151


he’s going to track down the leaders of the Vigilance 

Committee?” I say. 

“He can try,” he replies with a laugh. 

“Mr. York saw your face. He knows who you are.” 

“Mr. York is a good actor,” says Jack. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The way he was huffin’ and puffin’ at the posse, 

that was all for show. He knew we was coming for the 

Indian.” 

“Who told him?” 

“Never you mind,” says Jack. 

He gives me a warning look and goes silent— 

which is unusual for Jack, who’s a big talker by nature. 

I follow him out of the livery to a shed, where he 

opens a barrel and starts ladling gooey black pitch 

into a bucket for me. I’ve got one more question I’m 

itching to ask. 

“What was he like?” 

“Who?” 

“Louie Sam. You saw him that night, didn’t you? 

Inside the farmhouse.” 

“I didn’t see him. They had him in a back room.” 

Then he adds, not being one to miss a chance to puff 

himself up, “Mr. York told me about him, though.” 

“What did he say?” 

“That he was quiet. That he came with Sheriff 

Leckie and Mr. Campbell peaceable enough when 

they arrested him.” 

“Joe Hampton says Louie Sam told his mother he 

didn’t do it.” 

Jack halts what he’s doing, pitch dripping from the 

ladle. He gets hot under the collar. 

“Who cares what Joe Hampton says?” 

“But what if it’s the truth? What if we got the 

wrong fella?” 

Jack spits into the straw. “It don’t matter. I would 

kill a Chinaman as quick as I would an Indian,” he 

says. “And I would kill an Indian as quick as I would 

a dog.” 

Jack Simpson has a reputation for being likable, but 

at this moment I don’t see why. He seems all bluster 

and hate to me. 

“He was only fourteen,” I tell him. 

Jack’s face goes all dark and he stabs his finger at me. 

“You Gillies ought to remember who your friends 

are,” he says. “Just keep your trap shut.” 

He shoves the bucket of pitch at me and walks 

away without so much as a “so long.” 

I’ve done it again—opened my mouth when I 

shouldn’t have. Still, I’m sick and tired of people 

telling me to keep quiet. 

I head down the hill from the livery to the ferry 

landing. The ferry is a scow that’s tethered to a 

heavy rope that’s been strung from one shore of the 

Nooksack River to the other. The river is shallow here 

152 153


and calm compared to where it comes rollicking down 

from Mount Baker to the south and east of us. Unless 

you have your own boat or barge, the ferry is the 

only way to cross if you want to travel to Ferndale or 

Bellingham. It costs twenty-five cents for a person to 

cross, and fifty cents for a horse, or any other animal 

with four legs instead of two. 

There’s nobody around when I reach the ferry. The 

scow is moored at the short dock, its belly pooled 

with water from last night’s rain. In part I’m relieved 

not to have to face Mr. Harkness, considering the 

thoughts I’ve been having about him. But by rights I 

should be across the river by now inspecting telegraph 

poles. So I walk up the path to the house where Pete 

lives with his pa and Mrs. Bell and Jimmy. Mr. Bell’s 

horse is in a small paddock. He ambles over when he 

sees me coming and sticks his neck out over the split 

rails. Maybe he recollects me from the night Pete 

and I rode him north. More likely he’s hungry and 

wondering if I have something for him to eat. 

I’m remembering the times I used to come here to 

see Pete on a summer day, how Mrs. Harkness—Pete’s 

real mother—would give us hotcakes left over from 

breakfast, with jam. Then we’d go fish in the river, or 

set snares for rabbits in the woods. We could spend 

hours at one adventure or another. The house doesn’t 

look much different from when Mrs. Harkness lived 

here. It doesn’t look like a den of iniquity. There’s 

smoke coming from the chimney, so I know folks are 

up and about inside. I walk up and knock on the door. 

Nothing happens, so I knock harder. 

Jimmy Bell opens the door. His eyes still show 

signs of bruising, traces of the beating he took from 

John a week ago. 

“What do you want?” he says, not at all pleased to 

see me standing there. I suppose that one Gillies is as 

bad as another to him. 

“I need to get across the river,” I reply. “I’m 

repairing poles for Mr. Osterman.” 

As proof, I hold up my bucket of pitch. 

“Pa!” he yells into the house. 

I’m thinking, isn’t that interesting, that he calls Mr. 

Harkness his pa? 

“What is it?” comes a holler from inside. 

“George Gillies says he needs to get across the 

river!” 

In another second, the door swings wider. But it 

isn’t Mr. Harkness who’s standing beside Jimmy. It’s 

Pete. He looks me up and down like I’m some kind of 

trash that’s landed on his stoop. 

“What do you need to cross the river for, George? 

There some Indians over there you want to go powwow 

with?” 

There he goes again, calling me an Indian lover. 

When did Pete develop this mean streak? 

“For your information,” I tell him, “I’ve got work to 

154 155


do over there for your uncle.” 

“You got twenty-five cents?” he asks. 

“Mr. Osterman says I don’t have to pay,” I reply. 

Mr. Harkness arrives at the door just as I’m telling 

Pete this. He’s pulling up his suspenders and his dark 

hair is wild, like he just got out of bed. He seems even 

taller framed by a door meant for normal-sized people. 

“He does, does he?” says Mr. Harkness. Between 

his size and his growl, he makes me think of a big 

black bear. To be honest, Mr. Harkness has always 

frightened me a little. 

“He says he’s repairing telegraph poles,” Jimmy 

pipes up. 

Mr. Harkness looks at my bucket of pitch, then he 

looks at me. He lets out a hard laugh. “You take him,” 

he says to Pete. Then, to me, “Go wait down by the 

ferry.” 

He slams the door in my face. 

I wait a good quarter of an hour at the ferry before 

Pete comes sauntering down the path. He tells me to 

climb into the scow, while he unties the moorings. My 

boots are sitting in two inches of water in the bottom 

of the ferry. I look at the river. Even though it’s pretty 

shallow here, the water’s cold and the current is fastmoving. 

I wonder where Mr. Hampton drowned, 

whether it was near to this shore or the other, or in 

the middle. It’s a famous story around here. The ferry 

was just a canoe then. It was late spring and the water 

was high. Mr. Hampton set out to fetch a traveler 

from the other side when a log struck the canoe and 

split it in half. They say his family was watching from 

the shore when he was thrown into the raging current. 

I wonder if Joe watched his pa drown. 

“Have you done this before?” I ask. 

“ ’Course I have,” Pete snaps. 

He jumps into the scow and hands me a pail. 

“Start bailing,” he says, picking up the long pole 

he’ll use to push us across. 

“That’s your job,” I tell him. 

“My job is to push your lazy butt across this river,” 

he says. “Anyway, you’re riding for free, so don’t act 

like I’m your hired hand or something.” 

Pete sinks the pole into the water and gives a shove, 

throwing his whole body into it. As the scow shifts 

away from the dock, I can feel the current pushing at 

the boat, trying to send it downstream. The water at my 

feet is sloshing around. I fill the pail and start bailing 

over the side. 

“How much is Uncle Bill paying you?” Pete asks. 

“A dollar and half a day.” 

“What?!” I’m pleased by his jealousy. “Why the hell 

would he hire you, anyway? I’d do it for a dollar, and 

I’m his kin.” 

“Guess he figures he can rely on me,” I say. 

“Are you trying to say I’m not reliable?” 

156 157


“Pete, if you want to know why he hired me instead 

of you, go ask him yourself.” 

That shuts him up. We’re nearing the middle of the 

river now. The scow is straining against the cable. It’s 

taking all of Pete’s muscle power to keep it moving 

forward. If he hadn’t been acting so high and mighty 

lately, I’d go and help him. 

“I see Mrs. Bell has claimed that horse for herself,” 

I say. 

“That’s none of your business.” 

“I just wonder what Mr. Bell would think about 

that.” 

“Mr. Bell ain’t in a condition to do much thinking.” 

“Did she get the gold, too?” 

“What gold?” 

“Five hundred dollars of it. Mr. Moultray found it 

in Mr. Bell’s cabin, after it burned.” 

“I don’t know anything about that.” 

“If Mrs. Bell stood to get the gold as well as the 

horse, doesn’t it seem like she would have liked to 

have seen Mr. Bell dead?” 

“What foolishness are you talking now? You think 

she got that Indian to go commit murder for her?” 

But I can see that Pete’s thinking it over, that the 

idea that his more-or-less stepmother was involved 

has never dawned on him before this moment. 

I say, “You tell me. You’re the one who saw Louie 

Sam that day.” 

“Damn right, I did!” he barks. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me how he had murder in 

his eyes?” 

That makes him so angry, he stops poling. 

“I know what I saw!” he cries. 

For a moment I think I’ve gone too far—that he 

might dump me over the side of the scow into the 

river. But there’s confusion in his face as well as anger. 

“Cool off,” I tell him. “You’re awful touchy about it.” 

“Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” says Pete, 

pushing the pole again—refusing to so much as look 

at me. 

As we reach the shore, Pete tries to slow the scow 

down, but we’re coming in too fast. We plough into 

the dock with a jolt, gouging the boards. 

“Your pa won’t like that,” I say. 

I climb out of the scow and tell Pete—who’s 

still not talking to me—to watch for my return in 

the afternoon. I head on down the telegraph trail 

without looking back, happy that for once I’ve had the 

last word. 

158 159


Chapter Seventeen 

The first telegraph pole I come to is a thirtyfooter 

just a few paces from the water. The telegraph 

cable stretches up from where it was laid across the 

riverbed. The underwater part of the wire is coated in 

rubber, but where it meets the glass insulator at the 

top of the pole that’s there to support it, the wire is 

bare copper. This pole is out in the open, so there’s 

not much brush around it to speak of. Truth be told, 

I’m not altogether clear on what I’m supposed to be 

looking for. The wire looks to my eye like it’s sitting 

well on the insulator, and the pole looks free from 

damage from birds or bugs. So I walk on. 

In seconds, the telegraph wire carries messages 

that used to take days or weeks to get through by 

stagecoach or train. The line runs pole to pole over 

mountains and over gorges. It took hundreds of men 

years and years to string the wire, through some of the 

wildest country you are ever likely to find. But I have a 

nice flat trail to follow—though the forest is thick and 

wild on either side. 

The next pole is a hundred feet along the trail. The 

line looks good on this one, too, from what I can see 

from the ground, but the ground is swampy here and 

brambles have been taking full advantage of that fact, 

sending long sprouting branches up. I take out the 

handsaw and cut off a few. Then I think I may as well 

clear out the whole bush. It has thorns that catch at 

my hands and jacket. It takes me a good while before 

I’m finished. Once I have the brush cleared away from 

the pole, I can see a soft spot in the wood, so I find a 

suitable length of branch in the woods and use it to 

layer on some pitch. 

I tuck the handsaw in my belt and walk on from 

pole to pole, hacking away brush where needed. Once 

or twice I have to shimmy up the pole a little ways 

to apply some pitch. I collect several sticks of various 

lengths for this purpose. 

By late morning the sky has clouded up. There 

could be more rain. I’m heading to my twentythird 

pole when I see coming toward me a family of 

Indians. This makes me nervous, me being the only 

white person in who knows how many miles. There’s 

no way of telling whether these Indians are friendly or 

not, and I’m wishing I’d brought more than a handsaw 

with me. A hatchet would have been a comfort, or 

a rifle. But we only have the one rifle, which is for 

Father’s use—although I’m allowed to use it for 

shooting rabbits and the like. 

160 161


I keep one eye on the telegraph line, and one on 

the Indians. As we draw closer to each other, I see 

that it’s just two women and a bunch of kids, so I 

relax a bit. But they’re staring at me, which makes me 

uncomfortable. One of them is not much older than 

Abigail Stevens. She says something to the older one, 

her mam I presume, in their gibberish, and they both 

start laughing. From the way they keep staring, they 

can only be laughing at me. Now the kids start in 

giggling. I had not intended to talk to them, but now I 

can’t help myself. 

“What’s so funny?” I say. 

We’re all stopped in the middle of the trail. One of 

the little kids, a boy about Isabel’s size, starts prancing 

around, holding his hands up to the side of his 

head like the devil’s horns. I figure it’s some kind of 

heathen dance. Whatever it is he’s doing, the Indians 

think he’s pure hilarity, because now they’re clutching 

their middles they’re laughing so hard. That just makes 

the boy dance harder. He’s loving the attention his 

antics are getting from the women. 

But it seems his big sister, a girl of Annie’s age, isn’t 

amused by him. She grabs him hard by both arms and 

tries to make him stop, just the way Annie likes to 

boss Isabel. The boy’s face crumples and he builds into 

an ear-splitting wail. Now the mother is in the middle 

of it, pulling the two kids apart, scolding her daughter, 

comforting the boy. I don’t need to understand their 

language to get the gist of what she’s saying. I know 

what my mam would be saying. 

Nobody’s laughing as they walk on. The mother, the 

girl, and the little boy are all cross-tempered. But the 

other woman, the young one, turns back. 

“Man,” she says, meaning me. She points to her 

head, and then to mine. “Mowitsh.” 

I feel my hair, and discover that I’ve got twigs stuck 

on either side of my head from clearing brush. So 

that’s what the boy was making fun of. I nod, to let 

her know I understand. She smiles back, shy-like, then 

she catches up to the rest of them. 

“Thank you!” I call after her. 

She turns back and smiles again. 

There’s a pole every two hundred feet or so along 

the trail, roughly twenty-five to a mile. By my fiftieth 

pole, I’ve covered about two miles. It’s well past noon 

when I stop for a break. I sit on a stump, damp though 

it is on my behind, and take out the bread and cheese 

Mam sent with me. The day isn’t warm, but the work 

has given me a thirst. I wish I had some water, but 

there’s no stream nearby. As much as I’m tired and 

could stand to rest a little longer, I’m mindful that I 

want to make a good impression on Mr. Osterman, this 

being my first day on the job. I put what remains of my 

food in the knapsack for later, tuck the saw in my belt, 

pick up my pitch bucket and sticks, and keep moving. 

162 163


When I get past the fiftieth pole, I see I have a 

problem with the fifty-first. Something has knocked 

the telegraph wire off of the glass insulator. It’s 

hanging down in a big loop between poles fifty and 

fifty-two, ten feet off the ground. How am I meant 

to climb the pole way up to the top to put the wire 

back in place? I need a ladder, but there’s none for 

miles around. I see, though, how a nearby cedar tree 

is growing at an angle toward the pole. If I climb the 

tree and use my longest pitch stick, maybe I can reach 

the wire and lift it back onto the insulator. 

I’m jumping to pull myself up onto the bottom 

branch of the cedar when suddenly it’s like I hear 

Mam speaking to me. “Be careful, George,” she’s 

saying. I remember the handsaw I have stuck through 

my belt. I take it out and lay it safely on the ground 

beside the knapsack and the pitch bucket. Then I start 

climbing with my longest pitch stick tucked under 

my arm. The main branches of the cedar are nice and 

wide, but there are lots of little branches that block 

my way. I think about climbing down for the handsaw. 

But I reach a branch that is roughly on the same level 

as the dangling line and fight my way through the 

cedar leaves until I find an open patch. 

I’m in luck—the telegraph wire is in view, just a 

few feet out from the branch. When I stretch my 

arm I can just touch the wire with my pitch stick. 

But all I’m doing is making it swing away from me. I 

need to hook it somehow, so I climb farther up to the 

height of the insulator so I can catch the wire from 

underneath and put it back where it belongs. 

The branch is wide enough for me to stand up on. 

Once I’m standing, I slide my boots along the surface 

toward the wire, grabbing at other branches to keep 

my balance. The branch is getting thinner, but it’s 

still holding my weight all right. Finally, I reckon I 

am close enough. I reach my pitch stick under the 

wire and give it a good tap to make it swing toward 

me. The first time, it’s still outside my reach. But the 

second time I’ve got it. I reach out and grab the wire. 

The wire burns into the palm of my hand like the 

vibrating sting of a giant bee. The shock of it pulses up 

my arm. I’m so surprised I don’t even think about the 

sensible thing to do, which would be to let go of the 

wire. I stand there like a fool holding on. I’m feeling 

light-headed. I’m losing my footing. Everything is 

going black. The last thing I remember is I’m falling 

through the branches, being scratched and bumped. I 

do not remember hitting the ground. 

When I wake up, my first thought is how quiet it is. 

I wonder why there’s no sound of my brothers and 

sisters chattering to each other, or of Mam at the 

stove fixing breakfast. Slowly it comes to me where I 

am, and what happened. 

I’m lying on my back under pole number fifty‐one. 

164 165


Judging by the gloom collecting among the trees 

along the trail, it’s late in the afternoon. My throat 

is parched. I look at my right hand, the one I used to 

grab the wire. It’s burned and blistered. But it’s my 

left arm that’s throbbing with pain. It’s pinned under 

my back at a peculiar angle. Propping myself on my 

right elbow, I try to sit up—but the pain from my 

other arm shoots up into my neck and makes me cry 

out. I lie on my back, thinking what to do. It’s so still 

you could hear a twig snap from a mile away, but I 

don’t even hear that. 

“Hello?” I call, hoping that by some miracle 

somebody might be near enough to help me—maybe 

that Indian family I met earlier, making their way 

home from wherever they had been. Those women 

would know what to do for my arm, how to make a 

splint for it and wrap it tight. “Hello!?” 

But there’s no one. I look up at the telegraph wire, 

just visible in the growing darkness, still hanging in 

a loop the way I found it. So that’s what electricity 

feels like, I think to myself—a detail Mr. Osterman 

neglected to tell me. I think: If I had pulled the line 

down with me and broken it, the telegraph messages 

couldn’t get through and at least he would know 

something was wrong. But the telegraph line is fine. I’m 

the one that is broken. 

I know I can’t stay here. The forest is quiet now, 

but cougars hunt by night, and wolves and bears are 

always on the prowl. I take a few deep breaths and 

push myself up so that I’m sitting. The pain from my 

left arm shoots up and down my body, but I tell myself 

that if I just hold still it will steady—and it does a 

little. I take a few more deep breaths, and I push 

myself up to my feet. I think I’m going to pass out 

from the pain. Somehow my foggy brain wills my feet 

to move, one in front of the other, up the trail the way 

I came—toward The Crossing. I have two whole miles 

to go and I have to get there before the Harknesses 

shut down the ferry for the night. 

Every step sends a new tremor through me until 

even my teeth ache. I discover that if I use my burned 

right hand to hold my left elbow tight against my 

body while I walk, the pain subsides a little. After a 

while I cheer up, which is strange. Truth be told, I feel 

a bit the way I felt when Pete Harkness and I helped 

ourselves to his pa’s jug of Doc Barrow’s liquor. Lightheaded 

in a pleasant way. A little silly. 

I start slowing my pace. I tell myself to stop 

worrying so much about getting to The Crossing. All 

I really want to do is sleep. I feel like I practically am 

sleeping, though I’m walking, too. I start thinking 

that it wouldn’t matter if I lay down right here and 

closed my eyes, just for a little while. Then I stumble 

on a tree root, and the pain from my arm and shoulder 

rips through me—waking me. I know I have to keep 

walking, before the sleepiness overtakes me again. 

166 167


Suddenly, I’m aware of something moving through 

the woods beside the trail, following alongside me. 

Whatever it is, it’s light-footed—flitting between the 

trees like no more than a shadow. The funny thing is, I 

don’t feel afraid. Whatever it is, I don’t think it means 

me harm. Maybe this is what the preachers mean 

about walking with God. But then I see that whoever 

it is, he’s human, not animal—not God. He’s small—a 

kid, like me. 

“Who’s there?” I say. He doesn’t answer. I lose sight 

of him when a clump of bushes comes between us and 

I panic a little, because seeing him makes me feel less 

lonesome. I’m relieved he’s still there when we reach 

the other side of the bushes, his legs keeping pace 

with mine. 

“Who are you?” Still no answer. “Show yourself!” 

And then, ahead of me, he steps out of the woods. 

He’s facing me on the trail, blocking my way. I stop 

walking. The light is so dim now that I can’t make 

out his features. But I know who he is. I know him 

from his broad face and his defiant look, the way he 

holds his chin up and throws his shoulders back. 

“Are you a ghost?” I say. 

He still won’t answer. He’s just standing there, like 

a statue. I step closer. I see his eyes now, dark coals 

burning into me. But there’s light in them, too, like 

he’s just heard a good joke. His face is soft and full, 

like a little kid’s face. Like the dancing boy’s face. 

Why isn’t he angry? He should be angry! 

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak 

up—about the suspenders. I’m sorry for leaving you 

there in that clearing, all alone.” Now I’m choking up. 

I’m crying. “I’m sorry for your mam!” 

At last he speaks. 

“George Gillies,” he says, “what the hell are you 

babbling about?” 

I’m confused. I look again. A moment ago I could 

have sworn it was Louie Sam standing there, but 

instead it’s Pete Harkness. 

“I’ve been waiting for you for hours,” he says. He 

holds up a lantern as he steps closer, showing alarm at 

the sight of me. “George? What happened to you?” 

I’m about ready to pass out. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. 

They seem the only words I’m capable of just now. 

168 169


Chapter Eighteen 

Pete half carries, half drags me the rest of the 

way along the trail to the river, lighting our way with 

the lantern. The breeze has picked up. By the time 

we reach the ferry, wind is pushing the clouds away 

from the moon, which is full and bright. Pete helps 

me into the scow. I’m shivering, so he finds some old 

gunnysacks to lie on top of me to keep me warm. He 

pushes off from the shore. That’s when I remember, 

“The handsaw!” 

“What handsaw?” 

“My father’s. I left it. I have to go back.” 

I struggle to get up on my feet. 

“Stay put!” shouts Pete. He’s working up a good 

speed, pushing hard on the pole. “You’re in no shape 

to be hiking that trail in the dark.” 

“He’ll have my hide,” I say. 

“My pa will have my ass for running the ferry so 

late!” 

“Why are you?” 

“Because you said you were coming back, and you 

didn’t show up.” 

It’s taken me this long to realize that Pete could 

have left me on the far shore for the night, but instead 

he came looking for me down the trail. I’m still too 

put off with him to muster a thank you. Instead I say, 

“I have to get that saw.” 

“I’ll go look for it in the morning.” 

“You’ve got school in the morning.” 

“So I’ll skip school,” he says, like I’m being dumb. 

I lie back on some coils of rope on the floor of the 

scow. My need to sleep is taking over again. 

“Your pa will be too glad to see you alive to tan 

you,” Pete says, by way of easing my worry. I’m glad 

to see a glimmer of the old Pete, my friend. “Do your 

folks know where you are?” 

“They knew where I was going, but I was supposed 

to be back tonight.” 

“You’ll have to stay with us tonight. You can go 

home in the morning, if you’re up to it. Otherwise, I’ll 

get word to them.” 

“Why are you doing this?” I say. 

“Doing what?” 

“Being nice.” 

“You think you got the corner on being good, 

George?” 

“I never said that.” 

“That’s how you act. Like you’re better than me. 

That’s how all you Gillies act. Superior.” 

170 171


Well that takes all. I’m thinking of the night that 

Louie Sam died, when Pete and his pa were behaving 

like the biggest toads in the puddle, telling everybody 

what to do. Humiliating my father in front of the 

whole town. 

“Seems to me you’ve got that the wrong way round, 

Pete.” 

“How do you figure that?” 

“You’re the one who called me a …” 

I can’t say it. Pete has no such problem. 

“An Indian lover? If the shoe fits, wear it.” I fall 

silent. Pete remarks, “I see you’re not denying it.” 

Pete’s pa is not pleased to see either one of us when 

at last Pete helps me to their cabin door. He’s right 

about one thing—Mr. Harkness is all fired up about 

Pete taking the scow across the river in the dark. 

When Pete explains that he was worried something 

had happened to me, I get the feeling that in Dave 

Harkness’s view, neither my life nor my limb qualifies 

as an emergency worth risking his ferry over. 

Mrs. Bell calms Mr. Harkness down. She tells 

Jimmy to fetch some butter for the burn on my right 

hand, which has begun to throb something fierce, and 

she tells Pete to dish the two of us up some stew from 

the pot on the stove. She helps me off with my jacket 

and shirt so she can take a look at my injured left arm. 

She feels along my forearm, causing me to twinge. 

“That’s a break, right enough,” she says in her 

Aussie twang. “You’ll have to get Doc Thompson to 

set it in plaster.” 

“It can wait until the morning,” declares Mr. 

Harkness. 

She doesn’t disagree with him, but fetches some 

rags she ties together to make a sling for my arm. 

Telling me to sit at the table, she takes the butter 

that Jimmy has brought and lathers it on my right 

hand. Pete puts a bowl of stew down before me. I’m 

famished, but with one arm in the sling and the other 

hand greased up, I have no way to pick up the spoon. 

Mrs. Bell sees my predicament, and smiles. 

“Let me help you, luv,” she says. She picks up the 

spoon and proceeds to feed me the stew. “Is that 

good?” she says, teasing me now. “Does Baby like his 

dinner?” 

I am suddenly heated. I’m afraid I may be blushing. 

She smiles at the effect she’s having on me. 

“I think Baby likes it!” she declares in a sing-song 

voice. 

She feeds me another spoonful, this time wiping 

gravy from my chin and licking it from her fingers. 

Now I feel stirrings in places one ought not to, 

especially not when those stirrings are caused by the 

more-or-less stepmother of your friend. I try to drive 

out the shameful thoughts she’s started in me, to 

concentrate on the pain in my arm instead. I bow my 

172 173


head, praying that no one present will guess what’s in 

my mind. 

Pete gets up from the table, scraping his chair hard 

against the floor, breaking the spell she’s cast over me. 

“He can sleep upstairs in my bed,” says Pete. “I’ll 

sleep down here.” 

Mrs. Bell looks Pete in the eye, like she’s amused by 

something. 

“Don’t worry, Pete,” she says. “I won’t bite him.” 

“He left the stew to burn!” Jimmy’s suddenly 

shouting, his voice high and excited. 

All eyes are on the stove now, where the big cast 

iron stew pot is sending up smoke. Mrs. Bell is across 

the room in half a second. She may be small, but she’s 

strong—she grabs the handle with a cloth and swings 

the heavy pot onto the floor, all the while cursing Pete. 

“Did you not think to add some water to it, you 

dimwit?!” 

“He can’t help it, Ma,” says Jimmy. “He’s just slow.” 

Pete looks like he’d like to drive his fist into 

Jimmy’s plump, satisfied face. He answers back to Mrs. 

Bell, “Don’t blame me! It was already burnt. Better to 

hide the taste!” 

Mr. Harkness is across the room in a flash—cuffing 

Pete so hard against the side of his head that he sends 

him sprawling. 

“Apologize to your mother!” he thunders. 

Everybody’s silent for a few seconds. It seems like 

nobody’s even breathing. Pete’s still on the floor from 

the blow he just took from his pa. Slowly he gets up. 

I’ve never seen him like this—his face is red with fury, 

tears streaming down it. 

“Goddamn you!” he says. He turns a look of pure 

hate on Mrs. Bell. “And goddamn her!” 

Pete grabs his jacket from the hook and heads out 

into the night, slamming the door behind him. I’m 

sitting there wondering if I should follow him when 

Mrs. Bell turns to me and smiles. 

“I reckon that settles it. You’ll sleep in Pete’s bed.” 

“Wipe that smirk off your face, boy.” Mr. Harkness 

is speaking to Jimmy. “And don’t you be calling Pete 

stupid.” 

Jimmy cowers a little and sidles closer to his mam. 

Mrs. Bell lifts her chin and gives Mr. Harkness a look 

that tells him to watch his step. He’ll have to come 

through her if he wants to get his hands on Jimmy. I’ve 

never seen Dave Harkness back down before, but he 

does now. 

I’m wondering where Pete has gone, and whether 

he’s coming back. I’m wishing I was with him—anywhere 

but here, there’s such a bad feeling in the room. 

“If it’s all right, I think I’ll get to bed,” I say. “Thank 

you for the stew, and for the sling.” 

Mrs. Bell lets out a hard laugh. 

“You’re a bit of a stuffed shirt, Georgie, but you’re 

all right.” 

174 175


Chapter Nineteen 

After being so sleepy out on the trail, I think I 

will never be able to fall asleep due to the throbbing 

from my arm and my hand. But I must sleep, because 

I wake up in darkness. At first I think I’m in my 

own bed at home, but then the ache from my arm 

makes me remember what happened. There’s a curtain 

covering a window beside my head, under which I 

can see moonlight. I manage to shift enough to open 

the curtain a little and let in more light. Now I can 

see Jimmy sleeping in the other bed. I wonder if this 

is the room that Joe Hampton and his brother slept 

in when he lived here, before his father drowned. His 

father must have built this house. It’s a nice room, 

with a window and all. The whole house is nice, nicer 

than ours. If Mr. Hampton built it and it belonged 

to him, I wonder why Agnes and her boys don’t live 

here still. 

I hear voices from downstairs—Mrs. Bell and Mr. 

Harkness, but I think I recognize Mr. Moultray’s 

voice, too. I wonder if Mr. Moultray knows where Pete 

is. I ease myself out of bed and widen the crack in the 

open door just enough so I can slip through without 

waking Jimmy. The floorboards are cold against my 

stocking feet as I step to the top of the stairs. From 

here I can tell I was right—Mr. Moultray is in the 

parlor. He seems to be reading from a newspaper: 

According to Indian agent Patrick McTiernan, 

who attended the gathering, the Indian chiefs 

hold William Osterman, a Nooksack man, 

responsible for the murder for which Louie Sam 

was lynched on the night of February 28. 

The chiefs believe that Mr. Osterman, the local 

telegraph operator, lured Louie Sam to Nooksack 

on the pretext of employing him to repair the 

telegraph line. He asked the young Indian to walk 

with him toward the cabin of James Bell, the 

murdered man, only to then change his mind and 

tell him to ‘go away.’ 

According to the chiefs, once Mr. Osterman was 

alone, he proceeded to the victim’s cabin, committed 

the crime and made his getaway, correctly assuming 

that people would see Louie Sam near the cabin and 

blame him for the murder. 

My heart is pounding by the time Mr. Moultray 

176 177


stops reading. Are the chiefs right? Is it possible that 

Mr. Osterman is the murderer? But why? What did he 

have against Mr. Bell? I’m wondering why nobody is 

saying anything. Then Mr. Moultray speaks. 

“You know how this looks, don’t you? People are 

saying Jim Bell was planning on suing you.” 

Mrs. Bell speaks up. “Jim Bell was deranged. He 

told folks a lot of things that weren’t true—most of 

them about me.” 

But it seems that Mr. Moultray meant the question 

for Mr. Harkness, not her. 

“Dave,” he says, “everybody knows that Bill 

Osterman’s your brother-in-law, and your friend. Do 

you know something you’re not telling me? Bill didn’t 

have anything to do with this, did he?” 

“Listen to Annette,” says Mr. Harkness. “It’s all 

lies. Those redskins are just looking for a reason to 

massacre us in our sleep.” 

“Goddamn it, answer my question! The governor’s 

put out an order to find us. Just today there was a 

carrot top by the name of Clark snooping around 

the store.” He must be talking about the red-headed 

man I saw at the hotel. “He was asking all sorts of 

questions about who led the posse, what I thought 

about the lynching …” 

“What did you tell him?” 

“As little as possible, which in and of itself was 

enough to tell him I was there.” Mr. Moultray pauses 

before he asks, “Did Louie Sam kill Jim Bell, or not?” 

“Why are you asking us?” says Mrs. Bell. 

“Because I’m beginning to think you know more 

than you’re saying. If we hung the wrong man, this 

could turn into a full-out Indian War.” 

“We did the right thing,” says Mr. Harkness. “And 

don’t you worry about no Indian War. If those thieving 

redskins make trouble, folks will come from as far 

away as Seattle to kill every one of them they can get 

their hands on. They’re itching for the chance.” 

Says Mr. Moultray, “I’m the one who tightened the 

rope, goddammit!” 

In my mind I’m back in that night, in that clearing. 

I see Mr. Moultray’s startled look when Louie Sam 

recognizes him and speaks his name—I hear the slap 

he delivers to the pony’s flank, sending it running. I 

see Louie Sam up in the air, legs kicking, fighting for 

his life to the very end. 

Mrs. Bell speaks. 

“That’s right, Bill, you were the one—and don’t 

you forget it. You’ve got a reputation to protect in this 

town. You’ve got ambitions. What’s going to happen 

to your political career if you get arrested?” 

“My question was for Dave, I’ll thank you, 

Annette,” says Mr. Moultray, “and he still hasn’t 

answered it. Did you or Bill Osterman have anything 

to do with the death of Jim Bell?” 

But Mrs. Bell answers him, her voice like a coiled 

178 179


snake—hissing and ready to strike. “All you need to 

worry about,” she says, “is keeping your gob shut.” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” replies Mr. Moultray. He 

adds, his voice thick with emotion, “We killed an 

innocent boy.” 

Mrs. Bell hisses, “For God’s sake, man. He was just 

an Indian.” 

I don’t go back to sleep. How can I when my 

head’s swimming from the things I’ve heard, from the 

memory of that clearing in the woods, of that night? 

At first light I get up from Pete’s bed and find 

my boots. Jimmy’s snoring softly, his mouth hanging 

open. Between my broken arm and the burn on my 

right hand, it’s a trick carrying my boots, but I manage 

to get down the stairs without waking any of the 

sleeping bodies in the house. I find my jacket on the 

hook by the door. The best I can manage is to drape 

it over my shoulders, like a shawl. Outside, I stick 

my feet into my boots. I’ll have to wear them loose, 

without tying the laces. It’s cold, but even if I had a 

way to pull on my mittens, my right hand is blistering 

and oozing from the burn, greasy from the butter Mrs. 

Bell slathered on it. I tuck it inside my jacket and start 

down the path to the river. 

I am so relieved to be gone from that house that 

I feel light and happy, despite the ache from my 

arm—and despite the secrets I’ve heard. Why do the 

Sumas chiefs think Mr. Osterman killed Mr. Bell? Is 

that what Louie Sam told them? I think back to the 

morning we found Mr. Bell dead in his cabin. Annie 

and I stayed behind while John and Will went to fetch 

the sheriff. Then Mr. Osterman showed up, saying he 

happened to be out checking the telegraph line. Is it 

possible he was lying? Was he in the neighborhood 

because he killed Mr. Bell and set the fire? Is Father 

right about his character? Is he a liar and a murderer, 

pretending to be a decent man? It seems Mr. Moultray 

has his doubts about him, too. 

I shudder at the thought of looking Bill Osterman 

in the eye to ask for my wages, but I’ll have to do it. I 

promised Mrs. Thompson I’d pay for Teddy’s medicine 

today. And then I’ll have to pay Dr. Thompson to set 

my arm in plaster. My happy feeling is gone. I feel sick 

inside. 

I reach Mr. Moultray’s livery stable, down the 

track from the ferry dock. It’s so early, not even Jack 

Simpson is up and about. I have an inkling that I 

might find Pete inside. If it was me, that’s where I 

would go to find shelter for the night. The horses stir 

in their stalls when I go inside, thinking I have their 

breakfast with me. 

“Pete?” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m whispering. I 

suppose all the secret talk has got me on edge. “Pete?” 

“Here.” I follow the sound of his voice to an empty 

stall, where he’s made himself a bed out of straw and a 

180 181


horse blanket. I woke him up. He’s grumpy. “What are 

you doing out so early?” he asks. 

“I’m going into town.” 

“To see Doc Thompson?” 

“To see your uncle, for my money.” 

Pete grunts a reply. 

“Mr. Moultray paid a visit last night,” I tell him. 

“What did he want?” 

“He wanted to know if it’s true what the Sumas 

are saying, that your uncle’s the one who murdered 

Mr. Bell.” 

If yesterday I had accused his kin of murder, Pete 

would have hauled off and hit me. But this morning, a 

look of confusion comes over his face. 

“Why would anybody pay any mind to what the 

Sumas have got to say?” he grumbles. 

“Mr. Moultray is paying mind to it. He asked 

your pa straight out if he knows anything about Bill 

Osterman murdering Mr. Bell.” 

Pete has no answer to that. 

“Your pa didn’t deny it.” 

For a moment, he locks eyes with me. I see how 

afraid he is. 

“Pete, what do you know?” 

The moment is over. I’ve pushed him too far. He 

rolls over away from me and pulls the horse blanket 

up over his shoulder. 

“It’s too early for so much talking.” 

That’s it—that’s all I’m going to get out of him. 

But I tell him, thinking it might make him feel better, 

“After you left, your pa told Jimmy to shut his trap 

about you.” 

He’s silent for a moment or two. His back is to me, 

so I don’t know whether he’s sleeping, or thinking. 

Then he says, “I won’t be able to go get that saw for 

you. I can’t get across the river. I’m not going near him 

today.” 

“That’s okay. Thanks, anyway,” I tell him. 

“I’ll see you, George.” 

“I’ll see you, Pete.” 

At that I head out of the stable. Once again I’m 

happy to be out in the fresh air, away from the trapped 

feeling I get around the Harknesses, father and son. 

182 183


Chapter Twenty 

It’s still early when I get to town, and all 

the businesses are closed up tight, including Dr. 

Thompson’s drug store. I go into the Nooksack Hotel 

even though I know the telegraph office is likely 

to be closed, too, and I’m right. Two days ago I felt 

shy about asking Mr. Hopkins if I could wait in the 

lobby for Mr. Osterman, but today the ache in my 

arm makes me not care. There’s a plain wood bench 

near the door. I sit down on it, thinking that Mr. 

Hopkins can’t complain about my dirty clothes the 

way he would if I sat myself on the fancy upholstered 

furniture. He’s eyeing me from behind his desk. 

“The telegraph office doesn’t open until nine,” 

he says. 

“I’ll wait, thank you,” I reply. 

I’m not sitting there for five minutes when who 

should come down the spiral staircase from his room 

but the red-headed man, the one Mr. Moultray called 

by the name of Clark. I guess I’m staring at him, 

because suddenly Carrot Top is looking at me. I turn 

my head away, but not fast enough. He ambles over 

and sits down at the other end of my bench, although 

he has his pick of places to sit in the empty lobby. 

“I saw you in here the other day, didn’t I?” he says. 

His accent sounds Irish. “You said you were working 

for Mr. Osterman.” 


There’s something about him that’s making me 

uneasy. I keep looking straight ahead, making it clear 

that I don’t want to talk. But that doesn’t stop him. 

“You seem kind of young for a telegraph man.” 

To which I say nothing. He nods at my arm in 

the sling. 

“Dangerous work, from the look of it. What did he 

hire you to do?” 

“To check the line.” 

“That’s a big job.” 


“Is that how you got hurt?” 


Mr. Moultray was right about one thing: this fella 

Clark asks a lot of questions. From the corner of my 

eye I can see Mr. Hopkins glancing over at us. He 

seems nervous. 

“How long have you worked for Mr. Osterman?” 

says Carrot Top. “I ask because I heard he was going 

to hire another boy a couple of weeks ago.” 

I answer, “I don’t know anything about that.” 

184 185


I’m lying. Of course I know that Louie Sam expected 

Mr. Osterman to hire him, but Mr. Moultray told us 

never to speak about Louie Sam and there’s something 

about the way Mr. Hopkins is staring at us now from 

the hotel desk that is warning me to be careful. 

This Mr. Clark won’t give up. 

“You don’t know how long you’ve worked for him,” 

he says, “or you don’t know about the other boy?” 

“About the other boy,” I reply. 

He takes out a tobacco pouch and tucks a chew 

into his mouth. The tobacco makes a bulge inside his 

cheek. I can see he plans to sit here for a while yet. 

“That boy met an unfortunate end, of course. I’m 

sure you heard about it.” I say nothing. “I hear tell that 

there were a couple of white boys about his age who 

rode up to Canada with the lynch mob. Might you 

know who those boys were? I ask because there are 

only so many boys around Nooksack, and I presume 

that you all go to school together. I can imagine that a 

couple of kids going on an adventure like that might 

want to boast about it the next day. Did you hear any 

ballyhoo like that around the schoolyard?” 

“No,” I say. 

I get to my feet. I have to get away from this man. 

“You’re George Gillies, aren’t you?” he says. That 

stops me. “I talked to your father yesterday. He said 

you were off helping Mr. Osterman.” He smiles kindly, 

like I’m supposed to take him for a friend. “There’s no 

cause to be frightened, George. I’m just trying to find 

out what exactly happened that night.” 

“Why do you want to know?” I ask. “Who are you?” 

“My name is Arthur Clark. I’ve been sent here 

by the Dominion Government to investigate the 

lynching.” 

“I don’t know anything about it.” 

I’m a liar and a coward, but I don’t want to go to 

jail. He seems to read my mind. 

“Understand that the only people who are in 

trouble with the law are the ones who led the mob. 

A boy who just happened to tag along, he could go 

a long way toward easing his conscience if he helped 

bring justice for the native boy who was killed.” 

Should I trust him? I stand there like a dumb fool 

trying to decide. Pete Harkness and I might be all 

right, but what about Father? Would they consider 

him a leader? He could be arrested. Mr. Clark sees me 

weakening. 

“I talked to a friend of yours yesterday, George. 

Young Pete Harkness.” 

This is news to me. Why didn’t Pete say anything to 

me about being questioned by Mr. Clark? 

“He told me about running into Louie Sam on the 

road from Lynden. Got a colorful way of describing 

the Indian boy. Makes him sound most fearsome. It’s 

quite a story.” 

I’ve got a bad feeling about where this is going, like 

186 187


this Clark fella has read my mind again. 

“Did Pete ever talk to you privately about that, 

George?” says the Canadian Government man. “Did 

he ever let it slip that maybe somebody suggested to 

him that he saw Louie Sam? That somebody told Pete 

how to describe him to make him sound like he could 

have just come from murdering Mr. Bell? Like, for 

instance, his uncle, Mr. Osterman?” 

That settles it—this man is a mind reader! 

“I got to be going,” I say. 

“I’ll tell you what, George,” says Mr. Clark. “I’ll be 

staying here for a few more days. You know where to 

find me if you think of anything that might help. Fair 

enough?” 

Speak of the devil, who should walk into the hotel 

at that very moment but Mr. Osterman? He looks 

from me to Mr. Clark. He is not pleased to see that 

we’ve been conversing. I want to tell him that it was 

Mr. Clark doing all the talking, not me. I’m afraid of 

him as I have never been before. 

“What happened to your arm, George?” 

“I fell,” I say. “The wire at pole number fifty-one 

was hanging loose. I tried to put it back up.” 

“Seems you sent a boy to do a man’s job, Mr. 

Osterman.” 

“I believe I told you yesterday, Mr. Clark, that I 

have nothing more to say to you.” 

Mr. Clark smiles pleasantly. 

“There’s no law against me talking to George here, 

is there?” 

There is no humor in Mr. Osterman when he 

replies. “I’d be careful about talking so much. You 

wouldn’t want to catch a throat disease.” 

Mr. Clark isn’t smiling now, either. 

“Are you threatening me?” 

“Think of it more as good advice.” 

Mr. Clark takes a couple of chews of his tobacco, 

then gets up slowly, like he’s got all the time in the 

world. He sends a stream of brown juice into the 

brass spittoon in the corner. He turns back to Mr. 

Osterman, like at last he’s thought of a reply. 

“Then I suppose I should thank you for it.” 

“Mind your business, Mr. Clark.” 

“An unlawful act took place in Canadian territory, 

Mr. Osterman. The Dominion Government has the 

cooperation of your government to discover the true 

circumstances of that act. That makes it my business.” 

With that, Mr. Clark heads outdoors. Mr. 

Osterman sizes me up. 

“What did you tell him?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Make sure you keep it that way.” 

He unlocks the door to the telegraph office and 

goes inside. I follow him. 

“Mr. Osterman?” 

“What?” he snaps. 

188 189


“I need my wages, for yesterday.” 

“You were supposed to put in a full day. You only 

got to pole fifty-one.” 

Does he not see that my arm is in a sling, and that 

I’m in pain? 

“I got hurt,” I say. 

“Through your own stupidity. Nobody told you to 

go climbing the poles.” 

“You told me to fix them. That’s what I was trying 

to do.” 

He sees the burn on my right hand. 

“What happened there?” 

“I was trying to put the line back on the insulator.” 

“Don’t you know enough to know the wire is 

electrified? You’re lucky you didn’t bring the whole 

line down.” 

He’s trying to make me feel ignorant and small, but 

instead I feel angry. 

“How was I supposed to know?” I ask. “You didn’t 

tell me.” 

“Don’t talk back to me, boy,” he says. 

He reaches into his pocket for a handful of coins 

and picks out three bits. He throws them at me. 

There’s no way I can catch them with my injuries. 

“There. Now get out of my sight.” 

The coins bounce off the floor, scattering. I’m 

burning up with anger and shame as I kneel down to 

pick them up. 

“This is only half of what I’m owed,” I tell him. 

“You did half a day’s work. You get paid for half 

a day.” 

“But—” 

“Get!” he says, raising his voice. “And don’t let me 

see you around here again.” 

Mr. Osterman is a villain through and through, 

I have no doubt of that now. My first thought is to 

find Mr. Clark and tell him everything I know. I head 

outside and scan the street for him. But instead of Mr. 

Clark, my eyes fix on the one man I have more to fear 

from at this moment than Mr. Osterman. I see Father 

across the street, coming out of the drug store with 

Dr. Thompson. 

190 191


Chapter Twenty-One 

Father has seen me, too. There’s no avoiding what’s 

to come. He leaves Dr. Thompson waiting on the 

boardwalk across the street and strides through the 

mud over to me, his face a fury, his voice booming. 

“George, where the hell have you been? Your mam’s 

worried sick.” 

“I spent the night at the Harknesses’,” I say. 

“What happened to your arm?” 

“It’s broken. I had a fall.” The tears I’ve been holding 

back burst forth. I’m crying like a little kid, snot 

running from my nose. “I lost your saw. I’m sorry!” 

“My saw?” Father’s staring at me, puzzled, trying 

to make sense of what I’m saying. He looks tired and 

worn, like this is the last straw. He opens my right 

hand in his and examines the burn on my palm. “How 

did this happen?” 

“It got burned by the electricity in the wire.” 

“What were you doing touching the wire? Did 

Mam not tell ye to be careful?” 

“I didn’t know!” I say. Suddenly, I’m in a confessing 

mood. “I only got seventy-five cents,” I say, wiping 

the snot on my sleeve. “Half of what I’m owed. Mr. 

Osterman says not to come back.” 

Father’s jaw sets. “Does he now?” He looks up 

toward the telegraph office. “Wait here,” he tells me, 

and heads into the hotel. 

But I follow him inside. I get to the telegraph office 

door in time to see Father pulling Mr. Osterman up 

out of his swivel chair by his jacket. 

“Give the boy what he’s owed, you no-account 

bastard!” he thunders. 

Mr. Osterman is younger and stronger than 

Father, but Father is fierce. I’d be lying if I said I’m 

not pleased to see Mr. Osterman cowering, but I’m 

surprised that Father is so worked up about my wages. 

“Easy,” says Mr. Osterman. 

“You sent a young boy out to tend the line without 

so much as a speck of training! Were you hoping he’d 

get killed? Is that it? Another boy dead?” 

Mr. Hopkins pushes past me into the office. 

“Break it up! You want that detective to hear?” 

Mr. Hopkins is a shrimp. Father could take him 

easily, but he doesn’t put up a fight. The rage has gone 

out of him. He gives Mr. Osterman a hateful look. 

“Somebody ought to stand up to you,” he says. 

“Don’t try putting yourself above the rest of us, 

Gillies,” says Osterman. “We were all there. We were 

all agreed.” 

192 193


Mr. Hopkins speaks up. “We did what was 

necessary.” 

I want to shout out that he’s wrong, that Louie 

Sam didn’t murder Mr. Bell—that the real murderer is 

standing right here before us. But my courage fails me. 

“The choice is simple,” says Bill Osterman. “Stand 

together or fall separately.” 

Father seems to shrink a little at that. He turns 

and sees me in the doorway. There’s that same look 

in his eyes I saw that night, when he told me to be 

quiet about the suspenders. I couldn’t put a name 

to it then, but now I can. It’s shame. My father is 

ashamed. As much as I sometimes fear his temper, to 

see him belittled so is more frightening. I need him 

to be strong. I need him to be right—the way he was 

right about us having a better life in America than the 

one we left behind in Great Britain. The way he was 

right that he’d be free to be his own man, and we boys 

after him. 

Osterman digs in his pants for more coins, the rest 

of my pay. He opens my jacket pocket and drops them 

inside. 

“Take it,” he says, “and get out. The pair of you.” 

Mr. Hopkins goes back to his desk without another 

word to us. Father and I leave the telegraph office like 

kicked dogs. When we’re outside of the hotel, I tell 

him, “Not everyone is with Mr. Osterman. Abigail 

Stevens says her pa thinks you were right.” 

“Right about what?” 

“About letting the Canadian law deal with 

Louie Sam.” 

“You’re not to talk about that.” 

“How can we not talk about it?” 

“Quiet, George.” 

It’s only when we start across the street that I see 

Mae hitched to our wagon. The fact that it’s just Mae 

and not Ulysses, too, can mean only one thing: Father 

was in a hurry to get to town. Dr. Thompson is seated 

on the wagon bench, holding his medical bag on his 

lap. He’s cross at being kept waiting. 

“I thought you said this was an emergency,” he says. 

“My apologies, Doctor,” replies Father. 

“Is it Teddy?” I ask him. 

“Aye.” 

He offers nothing more, but I know that it’s serious 

if he’s come to fetch Dr. Thompson. Father climbs up 

beside the doctor and takes Mae’s reins, while I prop 

myself up in the flatbed at the back. 

“It appears you have another patient,” Father 

remarks. 

Dr. Thompson half turns his bulk around to get 

a look at me, the largeness of his belly making it 

awkward for him to do so. 

“I’m all right,” I say. Then, “I have your money.” 

“What money might that be?” 

“What we owe you for the medicine.” 

194 195


I feel for the coins in my jacket pocket. The burn 

on my hand means I’m only able to grasp them with 

my fingertips. They keep slipping away. Father snaps 

the reins across Mae’s hindquarters and she starts 

off, making the wagon lurch and jarring my sore arm. 

Without meaning to, I let out a cry. 

“Broken, I warrant,” pronounces Dr. Thompson. 

“Stop the wagon. I’ll need plaster of Paris from 

the store.” 

“The bairn needs you more,” says Father. “He’s 

burning up.” 

So Teddy’s fever has returned. Mam must be 

mad with worry. Father whips the reins, working 

Mae up to a fast trot, making the wagon pitch and 

jiggle—sending pain shooting through my arm with 

every hoofbeat. But I tell myself it’s penance for my 

cowardly ways, for the shame that Father and I have 

brought upon ourselves. I send a silent prayer to God 

promising that if only he’ll spare Teddy, I’ll go talk 

to Carrot Top Clark, and I’ll tell him what evil Bill 

Osterman has brought upon us all. 

Mae has worked up a lather by the time we head up 

the track to our cabin. Gyp comes barking to meet us, 

but otherwise the house is silent as Father pulls Mae 

to a halt in the yard. There’s no crying of a sick baby 

to be heard. None of us says anything about it, but I’ll 

wager we’re all in fear that Teddy has stopped taking 

breaths with which to cry. Will comes outside at the 

sound of the wagon. 

“John ran off!” he says, eager to deliver his news. 

“He’s gone to fetch Agnes, though Mam told him not 

to, because the doctor is coming.” 

Father is not pleased, but I’m thinking that there 

can’t be any harm in fetching Agnes. She’s the one 

who brought Teddy into the world, after all. With 

some effort, Dr. Thompson shifts his weight around in 

the wagon seat to get two feet on the ground. 

“Where’s the patient?” he asks. 

Inside the cabin, Mam has got Teddy in a tub of 

water on the table, trying to bring his fever down. 

When she sees me walk in behind Dr. Thompson and 

Father, her eyes light up and for a brief second the 

furrows of worry leave her face. Then she’s angry. 

“I’ll deal with you later,” she says. 

She lifts the baby out of the water and wraps him 

in a blanket. Anybody can see how skinny and still he 

is, how uninterested in being alive. 

“Good God, woman,” says Dr. Thompson. “Have 

you been starving this child?” 

“When I try to nurse him, he falls asleep after a 

thimble full,” Mam tells him. “I’ve tried cow’s milk. 

He doesn’t want that, either. But I give him his 

medicine, three times a day just like you said to do.” 

“Let me have a look, then.” 

Mam lays the baby gently on the table and steps 

196 197


aside so that Dr. Thompson can get a look at him. The 

doctor sets his bag on a chair and takes from it his 

wooden listening tube. He tells Mam, “Unswaddle the 

infant, please.” 

Mam lifts the blanket away and Dr. Thompson 

puts the tip of the tube to Teddy’s tiny chest and the 

earpiece to his own ear. He listens for what seems a 

long, long time, with all of us —Father and Mam, 

Will, Annie, Isabel, and me—watching him frown 

and purse his lips. Teddy fusses a little, not liking the 

listening tube. At last Dr. Thompson pulls back from 

the baby. For a second, he won’t look at Mam. When 

he does, we can all see in his face that there’s no hope. 

Mam buckles a little. She grabs hold of a chair back to 

steady herself. Father steps over to her, and takes her 

elbow in his hand. 

“His lungs are very weak,” says Dr. Thompson. “For 

whatever reason, this baby has failed to thrive. I’m 

sorry. There is nothing to be done for him.” 

Chapter Twenty-Two 

Mam doesn’t cry, but I know inside she wants to. 

She bundles little Teddy up in the blanket and holds 

him tight against her, able to speak but half a thought. 

“But the medicine …” 

“I’m sorry,” says Dr. Thompson. “You’ve left it too 

late. Perhaps if you had brought him to me sooner.” 

I hate the way he’s making Mam feel that what’s 

wrong with Teddy is all her fault. I can’t help myself. I 

have to speak up. 

“We brought him but two weeks ago,” I say. “Don’t 

you remember? You said the medicine would make 

him better, but he just kept getting sicker.” 

“Silence,” says Father, but not in an angry way. I’m 

thinking he may agree with me. 

“Medicine is not a precise science,” huffs the 

doctor. “Naturally, I hoped the baby would improve, 

but I don’t claim to work miracles. Now,” he says, 

turning to Father, “if you will be so kind as to 

transport me back into town, I have other patients 

to see.” 

198 199


“What about George’s arm?” says Father. 

Dr. Thompson looks over at me like I’m fly speck 

for questioning him. 

“Save your money and put a splint on it yourself. 

That will do as well as a plaster cast,” he says. 

He’s talking like we Gillies are paupers. That makes 

me even madder. 

“Will,” I say. “Reach into my pocket. You’ll find six 

bits in there.” Will fishes into my pocket and brings out 

the six coins. “Those are for you,” I say to the doctor. 

Will hands Dr. Thompson the money. He jingles 

the coins in his palm, like he’s trying to see if they’re 

real. He gives me a false smile and says, “Thank 

you, son.” Then, to Father, “I’ll be sure to tell Mrs. 

Thompson that your account is settled.” He nods his 

head at Mam. “Good day, Mrs. Gillies. I wish I had 

been able to give you better news.” 

Mam sits in the rocking chair once Father and Dr. 

Thompson are gone, cuddling Teddy and singing to 

him softly. 

Across the room, Annie asks me, “Is Teddy going 

to die, George?” 

“That’s up to God’s will,” I say, loud enough so 

Mam can hear. “The best thing we can do is look after 

ourselves so Mam can look after him.” 

“Does your arm hurt much?” 

“Yes. Is there any breakfast left?” 

I feel guilty for thinking of my stomach at a time 

like this, but I haven’t eaten since last night and I am 

ravenous. Mam calls from the rocker, 

“Fix George some bread and jam, Annie.” 

“Yes, Mam.” 

“We’ll see to your arm once you’ve eaten, George.” 

Little Isabel has had enough of being good. 

She holds out her skirt and begins twirling around 

the room. 

“Annie, let’s dance,” she says. 

“Not now!” 

Annie is busy slicing bread for me, using her bossy 

tone to warn Isabel that she has more important duties 

to perform than playing with her. Isabel keeps dancing, 

twirling faster and making herself dizzy. She knocks a 

chair, but keeps on going. “Isabel, stop!” says Annie. 

“But I want to dance!” 

You can see it’s only a matter of time before she 

bumps her head and starts crying. Ordinarily Mam 

would be telling Isabel to mind Annie, but Mam is 

only gazing at her from the rocker, shiny-eyed. 

“Isabel!” 

Annie is cross at not being obeyed. She grabs hold 

of Isabel by the arm to stop her. I can see that Isabel 

is winding up to a howl of protest. I’m not usually one 

to get mixed up with child-minding—that’s women’s 

work—but I find myself saying, “I’ll dance with her.” 

Isabel lights up. Annie retreats to the cutting board, 

200 201


where she spreads jam on bread for me. I hold out 

the uninjured fingers of my right hand. Isabel reaches 

up with her tiny hand and grasps them. Together we 

begin swaying in a waltz around the room. I’m careful 

to keep the sling holding my broken arm close to 

my side. 

“You’re a good dancer, George,” says Isabel. 

Looking down at her plump face framed by curls, I 

dip my head to her in a little bow. 

“Thank you kindly, Miss. So are you.” 

Mam’s watching us from the rocker, smiling. I hold 

up Isabel’s hand with mine to allow her to pirouette. 

That’s what Mam calls it when she spins. Will brings 

an armful of wood in from outside and carries it to the 

stove, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, but I don’t 

care. It’s at that moment that John comes in, followed 

by Agnes. Agnes laughs at the sight of Isabel and me. 

“To’ke-tie!” she says. 

Then her glance falls on Teddy, and her smile 

disappears. 

Agnes takes over, and we let her. First she makes 

Will understand between Chinook and her little bit of 

English to fill a pot of water at the creek and to start 

it boiling on the stove. From her beaded bag she takes 

a bundle of dried herbs and hands them to Annie, 

who looks confused. 

“Ee’-na stick. Tea,” Agnes says. “For waum sick.” 

I know that “stick” serves general purpose for 

“wood” in Chinook jargon, and as I look closer at the 

dried bundle I see that it’s leaves from a willow tree. I 

can guess what “waum sick” means. 

“She wants you to make willow tea to bring down 

Teddy’s fever,” I tell Annie. 

Agnes goes to Mam and reaches for the baby. You 

can see that Mam doesn’t want to give him up, but 

she knows Agnes is his only hope. Agnes gently takes 

him into her arms. Smiling and cooing at Teddy in 

her own Sumas tongue, she unfolds the blanket and 

takes a good look at him. We’re all watching her close, 

just as we did with Dr. Thompson not half an hour 

ago. It’s hard to read what she’s thinking. At last she 

asks, “Ik-tah muck’-a-muck? To-toosh?” I’m shocked by 

her immodesty as she puts her hand over one of her 

bosoms, in case we don’t understand. “Milk?” she says 

in English. 

“He never seems hungry,” replies Mam. “More 

often than not, he refuses. When he does nurse, he 

throws the milk back up.” 

Agnes looks puzzled. She puts her fingers to her 

mouth, like she’s putting food there. 

“Weght?” she says. Then, in English, “More food?” 

John pipes up, “She wants to know if he’s been 

eating anything else besides milk.” 

Mam starts to shake her head. Then she remembers, 

“The medicine.” 

202 203


John fetches the bottle of Dr. Thompson’s medicine 

from the shelf beside the stove. Agnes passes the baby 

back to Mam and pulls out the cork stopper to take 

a whiff of what’s inside. Her nose wrinkles. Then her 

look is pure disgust. 

“Baby páht-lum!” she says. 

None of us knows what she means. 

“What’s páht-lum?” I ask. 

Agnes does a crazy dance, making her eyes roll. I 

can’t believe it. Mam is aghast. 

“Are you saying my baby is drunk?” 

Agnes nods. She speaks the next word slowly and 

carefully, like she’s trying to teach it to us. “Laud-um.” 

She repeats, “Laud-um.” 

I’m at a loss. It’s no Chinook word I’ve ever heard 

of. But Mam understands. 

“Laudanum,” she says. “You mean there’s laudanum 

in the medicine.” 

Agnes nods her head, expecting Mam to get her 

drift, but she doesn’t. 

“Of course there‘s laudanum in it,” says Mam. “It’s 

medicine.” 

Agnes seems upset by our confusion. She prattles 

off something in Sumas lingo. We stare at her, then we 

look to each other. It’s one thing for Dr. Thompson’s 

medicine not to be doing Teddy any good, but is she 

saying it’s making him drunk? 

“What’s wrong with laudanum?” I ask. 

Agnes tilts her head and rests it on her hands, held 

together. She closes her eyes. 

“Baby moo’-sum. Make sleep.” 

I can see the truth dawning on Mam’s face. 

“The medicine’s been making him too sleepy! That’s 

why he isn’t interested in feeding. That’s why he won’t 

gain weight.” 

Agnes gives three nods of her head, relieved that 

at last we slow-pokes have caught on. Holding it like 

poison, Mam takes the bottle from Agnes and thrusts 

it at John. 

“Pour it down the privy!” she declares. 

She holds Teddy to her like he’ll be safe as long as 

he’s in her arms. 

204 205


Chapter Twenty-Three 

When Father gets back and hears what’s happened, 

he sends Agnes home with a twenty-pound sack of 

our best flour, which he has John carry for her. Before 

she leaves, she makes Mam understand that she’s to 

let the baby suck on cloth that’s been soaked in willow 

tea as much as he’s willing. All of us know that little 

Teddy is not out of the woods, but now at least we 

have hope for him. 

Father has bought plaster of Paris from Dr. 

Thompson. He gets Annie to cut up some old 

gunnysacks into strips, and he tells Will to bring him 

an old sock from Mam’s sewing basket—one that 

already has holes in the toe. He cuts the toe open and 

slips the tube that results over my broken forearm. 

While he mixes the plaster with water, he tells me to 

sit at the table and has me hold my arm bent halfway 

at the elbow, with my palm upward. He dips the strips 

of burlap into the plaster mixture and begins winding 

them around the sock. 

“How do you know this is right?” I ask him. 

“I’ve not been a farmer all my life without learning 

how to set a broken bone,” he replies, pretending to be 

offended. He’s almost jovial, so lightened is his mood 

by our hope for the baby. 

He takes another strip and dips it, squeezing it 

between his thumb and fingers until there’s just the 

right amount of plaster on it. He winds it around my 

arm from where the last piece left off. Just when I’m 

thinking that I can’t remember the last time I sat in 

such companionable silence with my Father, he says, 

“About that saw.” 

I bow my head. 

“Why did you not ask me if you could borrow it?” 

There’s nothing for it but to speak the truth. 

“I was afraid.” 

“Afraid I’d say no?” 

“Afraid … because I thought you didn’t want me to 

go work for Mr. Osterman.” 

He nods, and applies another strip of plastered 

burlap. 

“I’ll buy you a new one,” I say. 

“You spent everything you had on the doctor’s bill.” 

“I’ll earn more.” 

“Not from Mr. Osterman.” 

I want to tell him what I’ve learned about the 

telegraph man and the part it seems he played in Mr. 

Bell’s murder, but the children and Mam are about. 

“No, sir. Not from him.” 

206 207


After a long moment, he says, “Let’s call it even, 

shall we? The doctor’s bill for the saw.” 

I catch his gaze. He’s looking at me man to man. 

That makes me feel good, better than I have felt in all 

these last two weeks. I keep my voice low. 

“Father, do you know what the Sumas are saying 

about Mr. Osterman?” 

“Aye.” 

“Do you believe it?” 

He takes his time answering. 

“Nobody has proof,” he says. “At least, no white 

man. Without proof, he’ll go on as he is.” 

I think about this as Father continues to apply 

plaster to my arm. What proof is there? I try to 

remember every detail of the morning we found the 

body. I recall that Mr. Osterman looked shocked 

enough by the sight of the bloody hole in the back of 

Mr. Bell’s head, but that could have been play-acting. I 

remember he tried to talk me into taking Annie home, 

telling me that he would wait for the sheriff to arrive. 

When I refused, he told me to go wait with Annie by 

the track. How long did Annie and I wait? A quarter 

of an hour? A half? Time enough for Mr. Osterman to 

arrange things around the cabin for his own purposes. 

And he was the one who suggested we follow that 

trail into the swamp, where we found the broken 

branches and the tinned food and the suspenders. Did 

he plant them there, and lead us to them? 

When I went to Mr. Osterman asking to do the 

job he was thinking about hiring Louie Sam to do, it 

was like he’d forgotten that job ever existed. Not only 

that, but he sent me to repair the other end of the 

line—the opposite end from the one that supposedly 

needed fixing. So … did the poles near Mr. Bell’s 

cabin never really need fixing? Did he draw Louie 

Sam to Nooksack with the promise of work, when 

his real purpose was to make it look like he was the 

one who killed the old man? Did Mr. Osterman let 

all of us believe that Louie Sam killed Mr. Bell—nay, 

lead us to believe it—to keep suspicion away from 

himself? 

These are the thoughts that fill my head. By the 

time Father has finished with my arm, I am resolved 

that Bill Osterman must face justice. 

Mam sends me to bed early, and I sleep like a log. I 

wake up before dawn to the sound of Teddy crying. 

It’s a good sound. The cast on my arm is heavy and 

still a little damp, but the constant pain has simmered 

down to a dull ache. Pulling on my trousers with 

one hand, I go out from the bedroom to find Mam 

walking the floor with Teddy bundled in her arms. 

He’s shrieking and frantic. Mam looks worn out. I 

wonder when she last had a full night’s sleep. 

“How is he?” I ask. 

“His fever’s gone down,” she says. 

208 209


Father comes out from the space he and Mam 

share behind the curtain, pulling up his suspenders. 

“Is he hungry?” 

“I fed him not a half hour ago!” 

She puts the baby into Father’s arms. Teddy wails 

all the louder, thrashing his little arms. Father tries 

to calm him, but he hasn’t Mam’s touch. Mam settles 

herself in the rocker and begins opening her blouse— 

all modesty gone! I turn my back away. But in another 

moment, the baby has stopped crying. I hear the 

snuffling sound of him sucking. 

“You’d think he’d never been offered the breast 

before,” says Father. 

“Aye,” says Mam. I can hear the smile in her voice. 

“He’s making up for lost time.” 

Chapter Twenty-Four 

Mam reminds me it is Tuesday morning, and there’s 

school. Despite my broken arm and despite the upset 

in our house, she insists that John, Will, Annie, and 

I will not miss another day of learning. She gets no 

argument from me. I have my own reasons for making 

the trek into Nooksack, but they have naught to do 

with Miss Carmichael making me recite the sonnets 

of Mr. Shakespeare for the umpteenth time. I have 

not forgotten that at the moment I laid eyes on Father 

outside the Nooksack Hotel yesterday morning, I was 

on my way to see Mr. Clark, the detective sent by the 

Dominion Government to investigate the hanging of 

Louie Sam. I make a vow to myself that I will find 

him this morning to tell him what I know. 

But I’m afraid of how Mr. Osterman might 

get back at Father and me if I tell Mr. Clark what 

happened that night, knowing as I now do what 

a villain Mr. Osterman is. He tricked the men of 

Nooksack into executing an innocent boy. I wish 

I’d listened to my niggling feeling the night Louie 

210 211


Sam died. I wish I’d spoken up about the suspenders. 

Maybe some of those men would have listened. But all 

I can do for Louie Sam is speak up now. 

As we walk past Mr. Bell’s burnt-out place on our 

way to the schoolhouse in town, Will says we should 

hurry up or Mr. Bell’s ghost will grab hold of us by the 

ankles and pull us into the swamp to drown us. 

“Stop talking nonsense,” says John. 

“It’s true!” claims Will. “Arthur Breckenridge says 

Tom was walking Mary Hecht home past here after 

the dance at Moultray’s on Friday night, when all of a 

sudden she starts getting pulled into the swamp and 

he has to save her.” 

“More likely Tom and Mary got caught smooching 

in the bushes and had to make up a story,” 

replies John. 

“You boys mind your tongues around Annie,” says 

I, mindful of preserving my sister’s innocence. 

“I know what smooching is!” Annie declares, all 

miffed. 

John gets a smirk. 

“Then maybe you should tell George what 

smooching is, Annie. Abigail Stevens would thank you 

for it.” 

If I had a good arm and a hand that wasn’t burnt, 

I’d wallop John so hard he wouldn’t know what hit 

him. But I don’t, so instead I hook his left leg with 

my right foot and send him sprawling into the muddy 

track. He springs to his feet again. 

“Damn you, George,” he cusses, causing Annie to 

cover up her ears. “If you weren’t crippled, I’d settle 

this right here and now.” 

“Shut your gob, John,” says I. “I have no time for 

such childishness.” 

John spews damnation at me for calling him a child. 

I quicken my pace and walk ahead on my own with 

John still yelling at me. I have no patience this morning. 

I’m thinking about exactly what I’m going to say to 

Mr. Clark when I find him. I know what he wants— 

the names of those who led the Nooksack Vigilance 

Committee up the Whatcom Trail to Canada. I have 

no hesitation naming Mr. Osterman, sure as I am now 

that he set this whole tragedy in motion. I have my 

suspicions about Dave Harkness being in on it, too. But 

what about Mr. Moultray and Mr. Breckenridge and 

Mr. Hopkins? Weren’t they misled by Mr. Osterman, 

just as much as the rest of us were? 

My head is so full up with thinking that I am not 

aware that Abigail is waiting for me at the gate to 

Stevens’s sawmill up ahead until I am almost upon her. 

“George, what happened to your arm?” 

I think about telling her that I suffered an injury 

while doing important work on the telegraph line, but 

instead I find myself stating plain and simple, “I fell 

out of a tree.” 

212 213


“Well, that was a stupid thing to do,” says she. 

I am coming to admire Abigail’s way with 

the unvarnished truth—despite the fact that her 

unvarnished truths usually have something to do with 

one failing of mine or another. We fall in walking 

together toward school, Abigail holding her school 

books up against her front like she might need them 

for protection. 

“How was the dance?” I ask her. 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“When Mr. Pratt started up his fiddle, Mrs. Bell 

and Pete’s pa were the first ones on the dance floor. 

My ma took one look at that floozy showing herself 

off like the belle of Whatcom County and made Pa 

take me and my little sisters directly home.” 

“From the way Mrs. Bell parades around town, 

seems like she and a few others think they run the 

place,” I remark. 

“You’re talking about Mr. Osterman, aren’t you?” 

she says. 

That throws me a little. What does Abigail know 

about Mr. Osterman? 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Everybody knows what the Indians are saying 

about him killing Mr. Bell.” 

“Do people believe it?” 

“’Course not. Who’s going to believe a bunch of 

Indians against the word of a white man?” 

“Do you believe them?” 

A rare occurrence happens. For several moments, 

Abigail says nothing at all. When she finally speaks, 

it’s without her usual spit and fire. 

“If I tell you something, you promise to keep it 

secret?” she says. 

“I promise.” 

“The morning that Mr. Bell was murdered, Pa saw 

Mr. Osterman with the Indian boy. They were walking 

out of town, toward Mr. Bell’s place.” 

I can’t believe Mr. Stevens has kept this to himself 

all this time. 

“What were they doing? Were they talking? Were 

they arguing?” 

“They weren’t fighting or talking. They were just 

walking. But here’s the thing.” 

“What?” 

“Louie Sam wasn’t carrying a rifle, at least not that 

Pa could see. So how did he shoot Mr. Bell?” 

I’m staggered by this news. It’s exactly the way the 

Sumas say it happened—Mr. Osterman got Louie 

Sam to walk with him as far as Mr. Bell’s place to 

make it look like Louie Sam was the murderer. 

“Why didn’t your pa tell anybody about it?” I ask. 

“Same reason nobody says anything out loud. 

Because they’re afraid of what might happen to them 

as a result.” 

214 215


“Somebody’s got to stand up,” I say. 

“George Gillies, you just got finished promising me 

you wouldn’t say a word!” 

She’s got me in a corner. It’s one thing to work up 

my own courage to do the right thing and tell what I 

know, but a promise is a promise. 

“I won’t say anything,” I tell her. 

Abigail looks me in the eye. For once she isn’t 

mocking me or teasing me. She’s dead serious. 

“The only reason I told you is because I know I can 

trust you, George.” 

I’m amazed by how a few nice words from Abigail 

can make me feel so warm all over. I say, “I gave you 

my word, and I mean it.” 

We’ve reached the point in town where the trail 

widens out to become Nooksack Avenue. Abigail 

starts down the path toward the schoolhouse. I have 

another destination in mind. 

“I’ll see you at school, Abigail.” 

“Where might you be going?” she asks, all sassy 

once more. 

“Never you mind. Tell Miss Carmichael I’ll be 

along directly.” 

“I’ll be sure to give her the message,” she says. 

She’s being sarcastic. I can see we’re back to 

normal, she and I. 

“Thank you kindly,” I answer back without batting 

an eye, pleased with myself that I’m learning to hold 

my own with her. 

Abigail gives me a smile as we part ways. With 

that I set out down Nooksack Avenue, heading for 

the Nooksack Hotel—wondering how I’m going to 

tell Carrot Top about what Mr. Stevens saw, without 

breaking my promise to Abigail. 

216 217


Chapter Twenty-Five 

“Mr. Clark is gone,” says Mr. Hopkins, “and if 

you’re smart, you’ll be gone out of here, too, before 

anybody finds out you came in here looking for him.” 

I’m standing in the lobby of the Nooksack Hotel. 

From the way Mr. Hopkins is nodding toward the 

telegraph office, I know he’s warning me about the 

consequences of Mr. Osterman finding out I’ve come 

looking for the detective. But having worked up my 

courage this far, I’m not prepared to be put off now. 

“Mr. Clark told me he’d be here for a few days,” I say. 

“He was persuaded to change his plans,” replies Mr. 

Hopkins. 

The way he says it, I get the feeling that Mr. Clark 

was not persuaded in the nicest way. 

“Who persuaded him?” I ask. 

“Look, George,” says Mr. Hopkins, stabbing 

his finger in my direction, “if you know what’s 

good for you and yours, you’ll stop asking so many 

damn questions. Or you’ll find out for yourself who 

persuaded him.” 

It doesn’t matter. I already know the answer. I saw 

for myself Mr. Osterman making threats against Mr 

Clark right here in the lobby yesterday morning. At 

that point, Mr. Clark was sounding brave and resolute, 

but I’m guessing that Mr. Osterman found a way to 

bring him down a notch or two. 

“Did Mr. Clark leave word where he can be 

reached?” I ask. 

“Why don’t you try sending him a telegram?” says 

Mr. Hopkins. “I’m sure Mr. Osterman would be much 

obliged to transmit it for you.” 

Seems there’s a sarcasm epidemic going on in 

this town. Remembering my manners, I thank him 

anyway and head out into the street—glad at least 

for the good fortune that I have not had to face Mr. 

Osterman this morning. 

There’s nothing for it but to head over to the 

schoolhouse. Owing to my failure to find Mr. Clark, 

it turns out that I am there in good time before Miss 

Carmichael rings the bell to call us inside. Abigail 

glances over to me from where she’s talking with some 

of the other girls, then looks away just as quickly. I 

understand that she’s not mad or ignoring me. It’s just 

that, here in the schoolyard, we’re one way together. 

Outside … it seems that maybe we’re starting to be 

another way. 

I see Pete Harkness over in the corner of the yard 

218 219


talking tough with some of the older fellas, including 

Tom Breckenridge. I head over to him. It’s not until 

I get close that I see the shiner on his right eye. I 

remember him telling me early yesterday morning 

he was planning on staying out of his pa’s way for 

fear of his temper. My first thought is that he did 

not succeed. But he’s telling the boys around him a 

different story altogether. 

“… when this drunken Paddy come off the ferry 

complaining the ride was too rough, I tell him he can 

go eat potato stew for all I care. So he takes me by 

surprise and sneaks in a swing at me. But he only got 

in the first punch before I laid him out flat …” 

It’s such a tall tale, I can’t believe how the fellas 

seem to be lapping it up. Pete catches my glance. For 

just a second and only for me, his face lets show the 

truth of how his eye got blackened. Then he goes back 

to spinning his yarn for the boys. It seems that all of a 

sudden this town is full of nothing but secrets and lies. 

I leave him to it and head into the classroom. 

At the end of the day, I tell John, Will, and Annie 

to head home without me. I’m waiting for Pete, who 

has been held back by Miss Carmichael for his poor 

showing on the grammar test she gave the senior 

grades today. I’ve got a question for Pete that needs to 

be asked in private. From the way he’s been avoiding 

me all day, it seems he knows what that question is. 

Just about everybody else has cleared off by the time 

he comes out of the schoolhouse. He pauses when 

he sees me sitting on the step, like he knows what’s 

coming and he’s not pleased about it. 

“What are you still doing here, George?” 

“How’d you get that shiner? And don’t try telling 

me it was a drunken Irishman.” 

He walks ahead of me, his right eye turned away. 

“Leave it be, George,” he says. “It’s none of your 

damn business.” 

I have to quicken my pace to match his gait, his 

legs being that much longer than mine. I still have a 

question to ask him. 

“Pete, tell me again about seeing Louie Sam on the 

road from Lynden on the day Mr. Bell died.” 

Now he’s looking at me full on. He’s looking at me 

like I’ve lost my mind. 

“I’ve told that story a hundred times,” says Pete. 

“Are you stupid or something that you need me to tell 

it again?” 

“Just tell me what you saw.” 

“I saw that redskin with murder in his eyes. The 

look on his face filled me with terror.” 

It strikes me that he uses the same turn of phrase 

every time he tells it, like he’s reciting one of Mr. 

Shakespeare’s sonnets. 

“But he was just a kid,” I say. “What was so 

frightening about him?” 

220 221


“He was a savage. Ask General Custer what a 

savage is capable of.” 

“I saw Louie Sam with my own eyes, Pete. He was 

small—smaller than me even. And at least a head 

shorter than you.” 

“Are you calling me a coward?” 

No, not a coward—but maybe a liar. Now comes 

the question I’ve been wanting to ask him all day. 

“Pete, did you really see him? Or did your Uncle 

Bill tell you to say you did? Or your pa?” 

Pete stops walking and glares at me. It’s hard to tell 

if it’s rage burning in his eyes, or fear. 

“Are you some kind of police detective now, 

George?” he says. “Let me tell you what happens to 

police detectives around here.” 

“Tell me,” I say. 

His voice goes low. 

“They get beat up and run out of town, counting 

themselves lucky to still be breathing as they go. So 

stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” 

So that’s what Mr. Hopkins meant by Mr. Clark 

being persuaded to change his plans. I stand my 

ground. 

“Answer my question. Did you see Louie Sam or 

not?” 

“Yes! I saw him.” 

“Did he look the way you claim he did? Like a 

murderer?” 

Pete hesitates. He’s faltering. 

“Pete,” I say, “was he carrying a rifle with him when 

you saw him?” 

He’s moving his head from side to side like he’s 

trying to shake something off, which is as much as 

admitting there was no rifle. He looks weighted down. 

He looks like he might be readying to unload the 

truth. Then of all things he lets out a laugh. 

“Don’t you get it, George? It doesn’t matter. None 

of it matters.” 

“Yes it does,” I tell him. “It matters if Louie Sam 

was innocent.” 

“Who does it matter to, except a bunch of 

government bigwigs who can’t prove a thing?” 

“It matters to his people,” I say. “It matters to his 

family.” And I realize how much it matters to me. 

“It isn’t right that an innocent boy died to cover 

up somebody else’s crime. Just tell me, Pete. Did 

somebody tell you what to say to Sheriff Leckie to 

make Louie Sam look guilty?” 

He lets out a long sigh, like he’s fed up with 

holding the truth inside him. 

“Pa did,” he says. “And if he ever finds out I told, 

he’ll kill me.” 

Pete isn’t laughing any more. Not one bit. 

222 223


Chapter Twenty-Six 

In the early evening, John and Will are splitting 

wood while Annie helps Mam wash up from dinner. 

Mam is more like her old self again, relieved that 

Teddy is crying to be fed all the time. I have waited 

for a good moment to get Father alone. I find him 

down by the mill seated on a stump, enjoying his 

pipe on this fresh spring-like evening while looking 

out over the millpond. He’s watching a pair of ducks 

swimming and diving. He turns and cocks an eye at 

the sound of my approach, as if to say that I’d better 

have a good reason for disturbing him. 

“I have proof,” I tell him. 

“Proof of what?” 

“That Louie Sam didn’t do it. Mr. Harkness told 

Pete to lie to Sheriff Leckie about seeing him on the 

day Mr. Bell died.” 

“You mean he didn’t see him?” 

“He saw him all right. But all Louie Sam was 

doing was walking along the road minding his own 

business. He wasn’t carrying a rifle. All that talk about 

Louie Sam having murder in his eyes, that was pure 

invention coming from Mr. Harkness. I think he was 

in on Mr. Bell’s murder, Father,” I tell him. “Dave 

Harkness and Bill Osterman were in on it together.” 

Father draws on his pipe, looking out over the 

pond while he takes this in. He doesn’t seem the least 

surprised. 

“We have to do something,” I tell him. 

“Who said,” he asks, as though he hasn’t heard 

me, “ ‘For every action there is an equal and opposite 

reaction’?” 

Father is fond of testing me like this. I should 

know the answer, but at this moment I am too 

flummoxed to recall it. I hazard a guess. 

“Charles Darwin?” I say, knowing that Father is a 

great admirer of the famous man of modern science. 

He gives me a pitying look for my ignorance and 

tells me, “It was Newton.” 

I’m still not following him. What has Sir Isaac 

Newton got to do with Pete Harkness lying about 

Louie Sam? He gives his pipe a suck and lets go a 

long stream of smoke. 

“Whatever action we take, George, we must think 

carefully about the reaction,” he says. 

So that’s it. He’s worried about what will happen if 

we take a stand against Mr. Osterman and Mr. Harkness. 

Never before have I felt the need to talk back to 

my Father as I do now. I remember the Bible passage, 

224 225


the one from Deuteronomy—about making amends. 

“Those two spilled innocent blood, twice over,” I 

say. “We have to make it right in the sight of the Lord, 

don’t we? Like the Bible says.” 

Father casts me a look. He doesn’t like my tone. He 

doesn’t like being preached to. 

“Explain yourself,” he says sternly. 

I do my best to stay calm and put my feelings into 

words. 

“Louie Sam was just a boy,” I tell him. “He had a 

mother, and people who mourn for him. He didn’t 

deserve to die the way he did, alone and scared. He 

deserves justice, same as Mr. Bell does.” 

Father’s watching me like a cat watches a trapped 

mouse he’s going to devour any minute. But then I get 

the shock of my life. 

“I can not argue with ye there, son,” he says. “I can 

not argue with ye there.” 

He goes quiet. A wave of relief runs through me 

that he’s not angry I spoke my mind, but it’s more 

than that—it’s a feeling of hope that maybe together 

we can set things right. I sit down on the grass beside 

him. The two of us watch the mallards dive and 

surface until it’s almost dark. As we’re walking back to 

the cabin together, at last he speaks. 

“In the South, they’ll string a white man up as a 

traitor for so much as believing that coloreds should 

be free.” 

“But slavery is over,” I say. “Mr. Lincoln settled that.” 

“Aye,” he replies, “and look what happened to him.” 

A Confederate shot Mr. Lincoln dead, that’s what 

happened. 

“There’s no need to worry your mam about this 

business,” says Father. “Let’s keep it between us men.” 

“Yes, sir,” I tell him, proud that he includes me as a 

man. But now I feel the weight of being a man, too. 

Wednesday morning finds Father and me seated 

side by side on the wagon bench with Mae and 

Ulysses trudging us toward town. It’s a clear morning, 

but it rained overnight, making the track muddy and 

hard going. John, Will, and Annie are in the back. 

They’re getting a treat—a ride to school instead of 

walking. But Father’s and my destination is not the 

schoolhouse. We are heading to Sheriff Leckie’s office. 

It is two weeks since we last saw him, when he met 

the posse on the Whatcom Trail on his way back from 

Canada. Two weeks since Sheriff Leckie witnessed the 

Canadian lawman take Louie Sam into custody, and 

since Louie Sam died. With the Canadian detective 

run out of town and everybody else too scared to 

speak the truth, Sheriff Leckie is our last hope. 

The sheriff ’s office is at the far end of Nooksack 

Avenue. It was one of the first buildings they put up, 

back in the gold rush days of twenty years ago. From 

the look of it, it was thrown up in a hurry—really 

226 227


nothing more than a small square shack fancied up 

by a false clapboard front meant to make it look less 

paltry. Father and I wait outside in the wagon for nigh 

an hour before we see Sheriff Leckie coming down 

the boardwalk from the Nooksack Hotel, where he’s 

probably been breakfasting. 

We climb down from the wagon. Father shakes 

Sheriff Leckie’s hand and introduces himself, and 

me—just in case the sheriff has forgotten us since that 

Sunday morning when we met over the body of Mr. 

Bell. But Sheriff Leckie remembers me just fine and 

praises me for my clear-headedness on that occasion. 

“What can I help you fellas with this fine morning?” 

says the sheriff. 

“May we talk inside?” Father asks, because even 

though there is barely a soul on the street at this hour, 

the business that brings us to talk to the sheriff is for 

his ears alone. 

As we follow Sheriff Leckie inside the jail, he asks 

me how my arm got broken and I tell him. Inside, the 

first thing that hits me is the smell—like an old privy. 

The jail is sparsely furnished—just a desk, a wood 

stove, and one small cell with iron bars set in the door 

as a window. It looks like it hasn’t been occupied in a 

long while. I’m guessing it got more use back in the 

gold rush days when there were lots of folks passing 

through hoping to make a fast dollar, be it from 

panning or pilfering. The sheriff sets about starting the 

wood stove, which I’m grateful for because it’s cold 

and damp in here. The only chair in the room is the 

one behind the sheriff ’s desk, so Father and I must 

stand to say our piece. 

“George has some information he’d like to pass 

along,” says Father. 

“About what?” asks the sheriff, stoking the fire he’s 

got started in the belly of the stove. 

“About the murder of James Bell.” 

At this the sheriff looks up. 

“I already talked to your boy the morning of the 

murder, Mr. Gillies,” says the sheriff. “I don’t see what 

else he could have to add now.” 

Father tells him, “It’s new information.” 

Sheriff Leckie closes the door on the stove, then 

takes his time crossing the room to his chair behind 

the desk. He reaches into a drawer and brings out 

some paper and a pencil. 

“Well, George,” he says to me, “what have you got 

to tell me about a murder that’s already been solved?” 

He sounds annoyed, but I stand my ground. It 

helps to have Father by my side. 

“The wrong person was punished for Mr. Bell’s 

murder, sir.” 

“That’s quite a claim. What makes you believe 

that?” 

“I found out some things about Louie Sam, the 

native boy.” 

228 229


The sheriff slams the desk drawer shut, like the very 

mention of Louie Sam is a vexation to him. 

“I haven’t forgotten who Louie Sam is, son. And 

it’s not likely I’m going to with the governments of 

two nations breathing down my neck about him, from 

Governor Newell on up.” 

I tell him, “He didn’t kill Mr. Bell.” 

“You’ll forgive me if I beg to differ with you on 

that point.” 

Father pipes up in my defense. “Sheriff, you should 

listen to what George has to say.” 

“All right, son. I’m listening.” 

He’s looking up at me from his chair and waiting. 

Wouldn’t you know that my mind picks this moment to 

go blank? There’s so much to tell. I don’t know where to 

begin. Then all of a sudden it’s spilling out of me so fast 

that my tongue can’t keep up with my brain. 

“What people said about Louie Sam was dead 

wrong. He wasn’t carrying a rifle with him when he 

came into town that Sunday morning to meet with 

Mr. Osterman—so he couldn’t have shot Mr. Bell— 

and he didn’t have murder in his eyes on his way out 

of town, neither. People were just making up stories to 

make Louie Sam look guilty—” 

“Whoa. Slow down,” says the sheriff. “What 

people?” 

“Bill Osterman,” I tell him. “And Dave Harkness, 

too.” 

Sheriff Leckie moves forward in his chair, leaning 

his elbows heavily on the desk. 

“These are serious accusations you’re making, 

George. You better have something to back them up 

with. You ever heard of a little thing called slander?” 

I catch myself. I have a vague idea of what slander is. 

“It’s when you say something bad about somebody.” 

“It’s when you say something bad about somebody 

that’s a lie,” he corrects me. 

“I’m not lying! It’s the truth!” 

Father quiets me with a look, then tells Sheriff 

Leckie, “George hasn’t said anything about this in 

public, and he won’t. That’s why we’ve come to you.” 

“There’s nothing I can do with a bunch of rumors. 

Give me facts. Give me witnesses. What exactly are 

you basing this on? What makes you so sure Louie 

Sam didn’t have a rifle on him?” 

“I can’t say who told me,” I tell him. “I promised I 

wouldn’t.” 

Sheriff Leckie throws his pencil down on the desk. 

“Well then why are you in here wasting my time? 

What do you expect me to do? Go out and arrest Bill 

Osterman because a bunch of Indians say he’s the 

guilty one?” 

“Yes,” I tell him. “And you should arrest Dave 

Harkness, too. And Mrs. Bell.” 

“On what charges?” 

“Murder!” I say. “I’m a witness.” 

230 231


Father shoots me a look of surprise. It wasn’t part 

of our agreement that I would say so much, but I can’t 

stop now. Sheriff Leckie narrows his eyes. 

“Are you telling me that you saw Bill Osterman, 

Dave Harkness, and Annette Bell murder Jim Bell?” 

“I didn’t see them, but I heard Dave Harkness and 

Annette Bell talking with Mr. Moultray about it.” 

“George,” says Father in a warning voice, but I 

won’t stay silent. 

“Mr. Harkness and Mrs. Bell as good as told Mr. 

Moultray that Mr. Osterman did it, and that they were 

in on it, too.” 

“Where did you hear this?” 

“At their house, on Sunday night—after I broke my 

arm. I stayed there.” 

“What exactly did you hear?” 

“Mr. Moultray asked Mr. Harkness and Mrs. Bell 

right out if they or Mr. Osterman had something 

to do with Mr. Bell’s murder on account of Mr. Bell 

suing Mr. Harkness, and they didn’t deny it.” 

“I can’t go around arresting upstanding citizens of 

Whatcom County based on hearsay from a kid.” 

A thought occurs to me. 

“But, Sheriff, you have to arrest Dave Harkness and 

Bill Osterman anyway!” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Governor Newell said just last Friday that he’s 

ordering that the leaders of the lynch mob be arrested.” 

He looks me straight in the eye. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, son. 

Nobody knows who led that posse.” 

I’m flabbergasted. He’s the sheriff, sworn to uphold 

the law. How can he be speaking such a lie? 

“But … you were there,” I say. “I saw you. You were 

talking with Mr. Osterman and Mr. Harkness that 

night. And Mr. Breckenridge and Mr. Moultray, too. 

And Mr. Hopkins. They were the leaders. Everybody 

knows that.” 

“What I saw was a group of men disguised in such 

a way that I can not be certain of their identities.” 

“But—” 

Father takes hold of my good arm. 

“Leave it, George.” 

“But Father—” 

“I said leave it!” 

Father guides me out into the street without so 

much as a good-bye to take leave of Sheriff Leckie. 

He keeps his eyes forward. His jaw is tight as he 

unhitches Ulysses and Mae from the post. I’m 

confused by what just happened, and by Father’s 

angry silence. 

“I’m not sorry for what I said,” I tell him. 

Now he looks at me. There’s surprise in his eyes, 

and maybe even a little pride. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “It’s not you that 

should be apologizing, son. It’s not you.” 

232 233


Chapter Twenty-Seven 

Father points Mae and Ulysses back the way we 

came and we head down Nooksack Avenue in the 

direction of home. As we pass the Nooksack Hotel, 

who should we see coming out the door onto the 

boardwalk but Mr. Moultray? Maybe he’s been seeing 

Mr. Osterman in the telegraph office, or maybe he was 

breakfasting with Sheriff Leckie. 

“A conspiracy of ruffians,” Father calls it. “I wish to 

God I’d had the good sense to listen to your mam that 

night,” he says. “I wish I’d had no part in their filthy 

business.” 

“There’s others that feel the way we do,” I reply. 

“There’s Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. And Mrs. Thompson. 

Maybe Dr. Thompson, too,” I add, although I haven’t 

forgiven the doctor for giving up on Teddy the way 

he did. 

Father says nothing. I can see he’s thinking it over. 

“We could get a message to Governor Newell,” I go 

on. “We could write him a letter and tell him who the 

leaders of the posse were.” 

“Aye,” he says, “but let’s not fool ourselves. These 

are murderers. It’s a dangerous business.” 

“Not if there’s enough of us.” 

We’ve reached the edge of town. This is where 

Father should be stopping the wagon so that I can hop 

off and get to school, but he seems to have forgotten 

all about that, and I am not about to remind him. 

“Perhaps I should pay Mr. Stevens a visit,” he says. 

The Stevenses’ sawmill is right on our way, but 

Father reins Mae and Ulysses to a halt. He hasn’t 

forgotten, after all. 

“Off to school with ye,” he tells me. 

I jump down and he slaps the reins, calling to Mae 

and Ulysses to quicken their pace, like he can’t wait to 

talk to Mr. Stevens. I’m heartened by the prospect of 

finding like-minded souls to band together in defiance 

of Bill Osterman and Dave Harkness. 

I can hear Miss Carmichael giving the morning 

lesson in mathematics to the senior class as I slip 

into the schoolhouse. She is not pleased with me 

for being late. I make my apologies and take my 

seat. Half listening to the lesson, I glance around 

the room at the seniors, boys and girls I’ve grown 

up with, wondering how many of their folks besides 

Abigail’s might side with us. Tom Breckenridge’s pa I 

know for sure stands with the posse leaders. There’s 

Walter Hopkins, whose father, Bert, at the hotel 

234 235


keeps warning me to keep my mouth shut—so it’s a 

fair bet that Mr. Hopkins won’t be opening his own 

mouth any time soon. Kitty Pratt’s father was the one 

who struck Louie Sam in the head with his rifle butt. 

Under ordinary circumstances, Mr. Pratt is a nice man, 

good with a story and with the fiddle. Maybe he looks 

back on that night with regret. Maybe secretly he’s 

one of us. 

By noon the day has turned warm. Miss Carmichael 

makes us take our lunch buckets outside into the 

sunshine. I see Kitty with Abigail, so I go over to 

them. They’re sitting on a bench with Mary Hecht, 

who considers herself the queen bee even though she’s 

skinny and plain-looking compared to Abigail. 

“Why were you late this morning?” Abigail asks. 

“I had some business to attend to,” I tell her. 

“You’re making yourself sound awful important, 

George,” remarks Mary. 

“You certainly are,” agrees Kitty, pulling a blond 

braid through her fingers. “What kind of business 

would that be?” 

All three of them are staring at me waiting for an 

answer. If it were just Abigail and Kitty, I’d tell them. 

But Mary I’m not so sure of. I remember seeing her pa 

that night, one of the pack. I have no idea where Mr. 

Hecht might stand. 

“Cat got your tongue?” snips Mary. 

“Stop teasing him, Mary,” Abigail tells her, getting up. 

She takes me by my good arm and leads me away 

from them. 

“You got to be more careful,” Abigail tells me, 

keeping her voice low. 

“They don’t know what kind of business I’m talking 

about.” 

“George, everybody knows what kind of business! 

Walter Hopkins has been going around saying you 

went to the hotel yesterday to spill the beans to that 

detective.” 

I look over to Walter. He’s standing at the edge of 

the schoolyard with Tom and Pete. Pete’s at least a 

hand taller than either of the other boys. He lets out a 

big laugh at something Tom is saying. 

“But I didn’t talk to the detective,” I tell Abigail. 

“He left town.” 

“It doesn’t matter whether you talked to him or not. 

The damage is done.” 

“What damage?” 

She purses her lips like she’s afraid to say. She 

gives a nervous look over to where Kitty and Mary are 

watching us. 

“We’re not giving up,” I tell her. “My father wants 

to call a meeting of the like-minded. We’re going to 

send a letter to Governor Newell, telling him who the 

leaders of the posse were.” 

She gets a frightened look. 

“Are you crazy?” she whispers. 

236 237


“My father’s going to talk to your father about it,” 

I tell her. “We’ll be okay if we stick together. Strength 

in numbers.” 

“You told your pa about the rifle, didn’t you?” she 

says, still whispering. “You promised to keep that 

secret!” 

“All I told him was that your pa sides with us,” I 

tell her. She’s making me mad. I want her to be better 

than this. I want her to do what’s right. “What’s the 

use in thinking the lynching was wrong if we’re not 

prepared to stand up and say so?” 

She seems a little ashamed of herself at that. But 

she’s jumpy as a cat, glancing around at Mary and 

Kitty, and over to Tom Breckenridge like she doesn’t 

want to be seen talking to me. I calm down and try for 

her sake to appear like we’re speaking normally and 

not arguing. 

“Do you think Kitty’s pa might agree with us? Or 

Mary’s?” I say. “Can you ask them to tell their folks 

about the letter?” 

“I can’t ask Mary,” she replies. “She’s so stuck on 

Tom Breckenridge she agrees with every fool thing he 

says. Kitty … maybe.” 

“It’s the right thing to do,” I tell her. 

“You don’t have to be so high and mighty about it, 

George,” she shoots back. 

She’s got some of her old spit back. For some 

reason that makes me smile. And then she’s smiling 

back at me. We bend our heads together so people will 

think we’re having sweet talk, when in fact we spend 

the remaining minutes of the lunch hour discussing 

who else might be persuaded to pass the message on 

to their parents. Ellen Wallace’s father rode at the 

back of the posse—maybe that was because he had 

doubts about being there. Donny Erskine’s pa wasn’t 

there at all, due to his cow calving that night. But 

maybe that was just an excuse. Abigail says she’ll talk 

to them, that it’s safer for everybody if they’re seen 

talking to her instead of me. 

When we head back into the schoolroom after 

lunch, I get the feeling that Tom Breckenridge is 

keeping his eye on me. 

At home in the evening, once the younger children 

are in bed, Father says that Mr. Stevens agrees that 

something has to be done. He and Mrs. Stevens are 

willing to hold the meeting at their place, so including 

Mam that makes four voting citizens prepared to 

stand up and tell the truth. Mrs. Stevens believes 

Mrs. Thompson may be persuaded to join us, as well 

as Dr. Thompson. 

“It can’t hurt to have the town doctor on our side,” 

says Mam, though something in her voice says she has 

no more forgiven him than I have. 

“There may be others, too,” I tell them. “Abigail is 

spreading the word.” 

238 239


“If we’re to succeed,” says Father, drawing on his 

pipe, “we must act swiftly and discreetly. We can’t be 

sure of who we can trust.” 

The meeting has been set for tomorrow evening. 

Mam insists that Agnes and Joe be invited, too, but 

Father thinks it would be a mistake to invite the 

Indians. He says it’s one thing to right a wrong that’s 

been done to one of them, but quite another to start 

treating them like they have equal say with the settlers. 

As Indians, Agnes and Joe aren’t voting citizens, 

anyway. John pipes up that he agrees with Mam about 

the Hamptons, but Father tells him to shush. 

So we have a plan. Tomorrow night the rightthinking 

people of the Nooksack Valley will gather 

to sign a letter to Governor Newell asking that he 

order the arrest of Bill Osterman, Dave Harkness, Bill 

Moultray, Robert Breckenridge, and Bert Hopkins on 

the charge of leading the lynch mob that unlawfully 

hung Louie Sam. 

Chapter Twenty-Eight 

I wake up Thursday morning with my nerves on 

edge. I wish we could have the meeting right now 

instead of waiting for tonight. With all the enemies 

that homesteaders are used to facing, from wild 

animals to wild savages, it’s a bad feeling to know 

that your worst enemies are right here among you, 

the very people you used to rely on to help stave off 

all those other enemies. And it’s frightening to know 

that Bill Osterman and Dave Harkness are the sorts 

that won’t think twice about taking somebody else’s 

life if it’ll make their own lives safer, richer, or more 

comfortable. In my view, the pair of them are double 

murderers. First they killed Mr. Bell, then they killed 

Louie Sam. Who pulled the trigger or yanked the 

rope tight isn’t the point. The point is that those two 

men wanted the other two dead, and dead is how they 

managed to leave them. 

Father seems in a fine mood when he heads out to 

the fields with John to start seeding the barley. He’s 

like his old self, his own man again at last. But Mam 

240 241


must be rattled like me, because she snaps at little 

Teddy to hush when he cries from his cradle while 

she’s trying to make breakfast. That’s the first time I’ve 

heard Mam say a harsh word to the baby, so grateful 

has she been that he’s found his lungs and his appetite. 

Gypsy starts barking at something out in the yard, 

making us jumpier still. Then there comes a knock at 

the door. We all feel uneasy at that knock. Who could 

be coming to visit with the sun barely up? 

“It’s probably Agnes. Let her in, George,” says 

Mam, wiping her hands on her apron. 

When I pull open the door, to my surprise there’s 

nobody there. Then I notice a horse hitched to the 

post—Mr. Bell’s horse, the one that Pete and I rode 

when we followed the lynch mob north. A crazy 

thought comes into my head, that maybe Mr. Bell’s 

ghost rode the horse here as a sign to show us we’re 

doing the right thing, avenging his murder. When 

I step outside, I see just how foolish a notion that 

is. Mrs. Bell is standing a few paces off, admiring a 

dogwood bush that’s started to blossom. She’s wearing 

the getup I saw her in when I mistook her for a man a 

couple of weeks ago, outside the Nooksack Hotel—a 

wide-rimmed hat and an oilskin coat. She gives me a 

broad smile. 

“George!” she says. “Just the fella I’m looking 

to see.” 

Mam comes outside. So shocked is she at the sight 

of Annette Bell on her stoop that she just stares at her 

saying nothing. The lack of welcome doesn’t seem to 

trouble Mrs. Bell. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Gillies,” she says. “Fine 

morning, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, very fine,” says Mam. 

Her words are polite enough, but Mam’s expression 

has gone cold and she makes no mention of inviting 

Mrs. Bell inside for a cup of tea and some breakfast, as 

she would any other passerby. If Mam’s alarm bells are 

going off the way mine are, she’s thinking it’s an evil 

omen for Mrs. Bell to be showing up here now, what 

with the discussions we’ve been having about her and 

her dead husband. 

“You’re a long way from home, Mrs. Bell. What 

brings you this way so early?” asks Mam. 

“I’ve come to see your George,” she answers. 

“What would you be wanting with my boy?” 

Mam isn’t sounding the least bit polite now. In fact, 

she sounds downright unfriendly. Mrs. Bell smiles, 

unperturbed. 

“A word, is all. George is almost a grown man, Mrs. 

Gillies. Surely he needn’t ask for his ma’s permission 

to speak with the mother of one of his friends.” 

“Jimmy isn’t my friend,” I tell her. 

It comes out ruder than I intended. Mrs. Bell gives 

me a look. She almost seems hurt. 

“I meant Pete,” she replies. My face must look 

242 243


quizzical, because she adds, “Didn’t Pete tell you? Mr. 

Harkness and I are to be married, as soon as all this 

unpleasantness settles down. So you see, I will soon be 

Pete’s mother as well as Jimmy’s.” 

Mam seems not to know what to say to that, nor 

do I. It’s hard to know which is more scandalous—her 

living in sin with Mr. Harkness, or her marrying him 

so quick upon the murder of her other husband. 

“George,” says she, not waiting for us to find our 

tongues, “will you walk down toward the creek with 

me?” 

Mam gives me a look that tells me not to go with 

her, but Mrs. Bell has put me on the spot saying 

that a man wouldn’t let his mam tell him what to do. 

Besides, she seems all gentle and nice this morning. 

She starts down the path to our mill, and I follow 

her. She waits until we’re well clear of the house 

before she starts talking. 

“People are saying, George, that you overheard 

something you shouldn’t have when you spent the 

night at my house this past Sunday.” 

So that’s what this is about. My mind is working 

fast. Other than Pete, Sheriff Leckie is the only one I 

told about that. Which one of them spilled the beans? 

My panic must show, because she rests her hand on 

the cast on my broken arm to calm me. 

“I like you, George. That’s why I’ve come here. To 

save you from yourself.” 

“I don’t understand,” I say. 

“Sometimes young men think they’re being noble, 

when what they’re really being is pig-headed. No good 

can come from going around spreading rumors about 

your neighbors, folks you might wind up living beside 

and doing business with for the rest of your life.” 

I have no idea what to say to that, but she doesn’t 

seem to expect an answer. We’ve reached the mill 

house. She looks around and smiles at the pretty 

scene of the millpond. The water is smooth and calm 

and birds are chirping. She breathes in the fresh 

morning air. 

“Some people,” she tells me, “are angry at you for 

turning against your own kind.” 

I don’t need to ask who those people might be. Her 

soon-to-be husband must be one of them, as well as 

Mr. Osterman and Sheriff Leckie. 

“But I’m not angry with you, George,” she says, 

“even though you have a funny way of showing your 

gratitude for us taking you in and feeding you and 

giving you a bed for the night when you were hurt so 

bad. I’m more worried for you, worried about what 

might befall a boy who doesn’t know when to keep his 

gob shut.” 

She has lost all trace of gentleness. She looks me 

in the eye and tells me, “I see you have nothing to say, 

George. Best to keep it that way if you know what’s 

good for you and your kin.” 

244 245


With that she heads back up the path to the house, 

taking long strides just like a man would. And I’m 

afraid of her, same as I would be if it were a man 

making threats against me and mine. 

I get back to the house in time to see the 

hindquarters of Mr. Bell’s horse carrying Mrs. Bell 

down the path to the track. Mam is leaning over 

Teddy’s cradle when I go inside. She keeps her back 

to me. 

“What did that woman want with ye?” she asks. 

I stop myself from telling Mam the truth. Mrs. 

Bell’s threats would only put more strain on her shaky 

nerves, when she’s just earned a respite by getting 

Teddy to fall asleep. Besides, Annie, Will, and Isabel 

are seated at the table eating their eggs and hotcakes. 

It’s not proper for little kids to hear about how evil 

the human spirit can be. 

“It’s private,” I tell Mam. 

Mam turns and gives me a funny look. 

“George Gillies, I’ll not have you keeping secrets 

with the likes of her. Nor company, neither.” 

I feel myself blushing. I don’t even want to think 

about what on earth she imagines is going on between 

me and Mrs. Bell. 

“I got to get to school,” I tell her, and I head for 

the door. 

“You need to walk Annie and Will,” Mam tells me. 

“John’s staying back to help Father with the planting 

today.” 

That would be my job, if my arm weren’t broken. I 

feel as useless as a dull blade. 

“I can walk Annie,” says Will. 

Mam looks at Will, and finds a smile for him. 

“I’m forgetting how much you’re grown,” she tells 

him. To me she says, “I’ll send your lunch with the 

children.” 

I told Mam a white lie—I’m not going to school. 

I just need air. Outside, I think that maybe I should 

go find Father in the fields and tell him about Mrs. 

Bell’s visit. But what exactly can I tell him, except that 

I let a woman scare the willies out of me? I need to 

go someplace where I can think. I start walking, and 

before I know it I’m at the creek. I keep walking along 

the creek, until the Hamptons’ shack comes into view. 

Joe is outside, near their cook fire. Something tells me 

that Joe is exactly the one I need to talk to. Maybe 

that’s why my feet have led me this way. 

246 247


Chapter Twenty-Nine 

The Hampton place isn’t neat and tidy like ours. 

There is no tilled garden waiting to be planted. The 

shack is surrounded by brambles. The walls are of logs 

and the roof of deer skin, making it look half Indian 

tepee and half a white man’s cabin. The cooking fire 

is outside. A big cast iron pot is propped up over 

the red-hot embers with something that smells like 

porridge cooking in it. Joe has got a newly killed buck 

hanging from a tree branch. He’s got the carcass split 

open and he’s putting the guts into a bucket—so fresh 

they’re steaming. He tells me to take a load off, so I 

take a seat on a stump of wood set up for that purpose 

near the fire. 

“You were right about Louie Sam,” I tell him. “I 

know he didn’t shoot Mr. Bell.” 

“Did you come over here to tell me what I 

already know?” 

I falter at that. Why did I come here? What is it I 

want from Joe? Maybe I want reminding that there’s a 

wrong that must be righted, no matter how much risk 

it brings down on the heads of us Gillies. I find myself 

saying, “Some of the settlers are holding a meeting. 

We’re sending a letter to the governor to tell him who 

led the lynch mob, so they’ll be arrested and sent to 

Canada to face justice.” 

Joe finishes gutting the deer. He carries the bucket 

to the pot over the fire and, fishing out the kidneys 

and the liver and the heart, tosses them into it. He 

does all of this without speaking a word in response to 

what I’ve just told him. At last I say, “I thought you’d 

be happy to hear that.” 

“My cousin is still dead,” says Joe. “But maybe you 

sleep better at night now, without him in your dreams, 

so that’s good.” 

His voice isn’t angry, but his words are. I feel bad 

that he thinks I’m fighting for justice just to make 

myself feel better, to ease my guilty conscience. Maybe 

that’s why I find myself telling him what I have told 

no one else. 

“I saw him on the telegraph trail, south of the 

river,” I say. “He came to me.” 

When I say it out loud, it sounds crazy. But Joe 

doesn’t seem to think so. 

“What was he doing?” 

“He was walking through the woods, alongside me. I 

was in rough shape at the time. I fell and broke my arm 

and I was all alone. It was a comfort to see him, even 

though I knew he had no cause to be friendly to me.” 

248 249


“Did he speak to you?” 

“No. But I thought he was smiling.” 

“He was like that. He liked a good joke. He had 

a temper on him, too, though. Like his pa.” Then he 

adds, glancing at my cast, “Maybe he was smiling 

because he saw your arm was broke.” 

That hadn’t occurred to me before. 

I ask, “You reckon it was really him?” 

“You got to be careful with the spirit world,” says 

Joe. “They don’t like loose talk about them from the 

living. I heard about a man who told a missionary 

about the river spirit, and he wound up drowning.” 

That’s no kind of answer—just superstition. 

“That isn’t a Christian way of looking at it,” I 

tell him. “You can tell God anything. He knows 

everything.” 

Joe looks over at me across the fire. Now there’s 

anger in his eyes. 

“Does he know why the People of the River are 

dying?” 

This takes me aback. 

“What people?” I say. “Besides Louie Sam?” 

He shakes his head. 

“The whites brought sickness with them. 

Consumption. The pox. Whole families are dying, 

on both sides of the border. Ten years ago when 

the government tried to put the Nooksack on a 

reservation out by the bay, they came right back to 

the river, where they belong. Now … everything’s 

changing. Settlers are stringing nets so the salmon 

can’t get upstream. Fences are going up everywhere. 

I hunt for deer worrying I’ll shoot somebody’s cow 

instead and get strung up as a thief—on our land.” 

Their land. Their ways. I’d like to tell him that 

it’s our land now, and that our ways are making a 

living and a future out of what was just wilderness. 

Still, I think about how Agnes knew better than Dr. 

Thompson—with all his learning—what to do for 

Teddy. I don’t know what to say, so I wind up saying 

something dumb. 

“Do you pray like we do?” I ask him. 

He simmers down at that. 

“Of course I pray,” he says. “I prayed for this 

mowitsh to come and feed us.” 

So mowitsh means deer. That’s what the Indian girl 

was saying to me about the twigs in my hair that day on 

the telegraph trail. Now I get the joke—she was saying 

the twigs made it look like I had antlers, like a deer. 

“What are you smiling at?” says Joe. “You think 

praying is funny?” 

“I don’t mean offense, Joe,” I tell him, serious again. 

“I reckon sometimes all we can do is pray.” 

I get to my feet, readying to take my leave, when 

Agnes comes out from the shack. She goes to the fire 

to give the cast iron pot a stir, nodding to me. 

“Baby good?” she asks me. 

250 251


“Teddy is good,” I tell her. “Mam says he’s like a 

little piglet grunting for his food.” 

“No páht-lum,” she says. 

“No, he’s not drunk anymore. Thank you, Agnes. 

You saved him.” 

She straightens up and smiles at me. Reaching her 

hand up to my face, she pats my cheek like I’m a little 

kid, even though I’m a good foot taller than her. Her 

palm is tough as cowhide. Her eyes are sad and so 

tired they make me tired just looking into them. 

“Where’s your brother?” I ask Joe. 

“Over at the residential school in Lynden. Learning 

to be white.” 

Agnes frowns at Joe and says something harsh to 

him in their language. He talks back to her. Whatever 

they’re saying, I can tell this is an argument they’ve 

had before. 

“What’s she saying?” I ask Joe. 

He laughs, “She’s says I’m jealous because Billy 

knows how to read and write.” 

“I could teach you,” I tell him. Joe gives me a cold 

look with those blue eyes, like he thinks I’m calling him 

stupid. “That is,” I add, “if you ever wanted to learn.” 

He turns away and goes back to cleaning out the 

deer. Agnes sits down by the fire and stirs the pot. It 

seems neither one of them has anything left to say to 

me, or to each other. 

“I guess I’ll be going,” I tell them. 

Just as I’m on my way, Joe says, “The people will 

be glad to know there’s whites who are sorry for what 

happened.” 

It’s not much, but it’s all the reassuring I’m going 

to get from him. 

I walk back along the creek the way I came, 

thinking about my talk with Joe. There’s a lot that’s 

mysterious about the Indian way of thinking, and 

Joe is a particular curiosity. Sometimes he talks like 

a white man, and other times like an Indian. He’ll 

always look like an Indian, though, except for his blue 

eyes, so I guess that decides the question as far as 

white folks are concerned. But it seems that everybody 

on this earth—whites and natives alike—suffers in one 

way or another. And, in one way or another, all of us 

are praying for that suffering to be eased. 

252 253


Chapter Thirty 

I take the long way around the house so Mam 

won’t spy me and know that I am late for school again. 

I walk swiftly along the path to town. Passing Mr. 

Bell’s burnt-out place, I give a thought to the stories 

going around about Mr. Bell’s ghost, and the hairs on 

the back of my neck go up. I wish Joe Hampton had 

been clearer with me about whether it was really the 

spirit of Louie Sam that I saw walking last Sunday. 

When I reach the schoolyard, the kids are already 

outside having recess. I see Abigail sitting on the 

bench with the other senior girls. I get the feeling she 

sees me, too, though her head doesn’t turn my way, or 

even her eyes. 

“What have you done now, George?” 

I look down to see my sister Annie standing at my 

elbow. Her hands are on her waist and her elbows are 

sticking out. 

“What are you talking about?” I say, cross that the 

little snip of a thing is taking me to task like she’s the 

schoolma’am. 

“None of the girls will even speak to me!” 

“Well, maybe you should learn to talk more nicely 

to them then.” 

“It’s not because of me. It’s because of you! They won’t 

say what you’ve done, but it must be something bad.” 

So word has spread about the meeting. Even 

the younger kids are fearful. I can’t stop my glance 

from shooting over to Abigail, who’s just ten paces 

away from me. Maybe she did too good a job letting 

people know. From the way she’s coloring up, I know 

for certain she feels me looking at her, but she keeps 

her eyes forward on Mary Hecht, who’s talking about 

a new dress or some such foolery. I look back to 

Annie. 

“You need to trust in your own,” I tell her. 

And I mean it. Others may turn against me, but 

I won’t stand for disloyal talk coming from my own 

sister. She lowers her eyes. When she looks up again, I 

see how afraid she is. 

“What’s going to happen, George?” she whispers. 

“Nothing you need to worry about,” I tell her. From 

the way she looks at me she knows I’m not telling her 

the truth. 

Miss Carmichael comes out from the schoolhouse 

and rings the bell for us to come inside. As I climb 

the steps, Pete Harkness leans into me. There’s snake 

venom in his eyes. 

“You son of a bitch,” he says. I can feel his breath 

254 255


on my face. “What I told you was secret. So you go 

and tell the sheriff?” 

“I didn’t say where I heard it,” I tell him. 

“It don’t matter,” says he. “From this day forward, 

you and me are blood enemies.” 

He walks ahead into the school. So that’s the way it 

is. Justice has cost me a friend. 

At the end of the day I get a chance to talk to 

Abigail alone as we walk down the trail together 

toward her home and mine. She’s quiet and on edge, 

like she doesn’t know what to say to me. 

“It seems you put the word around all right,” I say. 

It comes out like I’m accusing her of something, 

which isn’t what I meant at all. She answers back 

angry, “I only talked to Kitty and Walter!” 

I tell her, “Pete knows something.” 

“Well I sure as heck didn’t tell him!” 

“I didn’t say you did.” 

“It sounds to me like you think so.” 

I stop in the middle of the track and turn to 

her. I’m so full of frustration, the way she’s twisting 

everything I say. 

“Abigail …” 

“What?” 

The next thing I know, I’m kissing her. All of a 

moment, I understand what the fuss is about kissing— 

her lips are so soft and sweet-tasting. I don’t want to 

stop, and it seems she doesn’t want to, either. But then 

she pulls back from me, wiping the back of her hand 

across her mouth. Then I feel ashamed. 

“Sorry …” 

“It’s all right,” she whispers. 

In her eyes, I see she’s as confused as I am. We start 

walking again. We go the rest of the way in silence. I 

want to take her hand, but I’m afraid it might scare 

her. So I walk by her side, feeling the pull of her. 

At last we reach the gate to her family’s house and 

sawmill. She opens the gate and starts to go inside. 

“Do you figure Pete knows about tonight’s 

meeting?” I ask her. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know who’s telling what to 

who anymore.” 

“Your parents aren’t going to back out, are they?” 

“Of course they aren’t. When my pa says he’ll do 

something, he does it.” 

“Then I’ll see you here tonight.” 

“I’ll see you, George.” 

I walk the rest of the way home alone, trying to 

chase that kiss from my mind. 

We’re quiet around the table at dinner. Father 

and John are weary and hungry from their day in the 

fields. Annie picks at her food, her face full of worry— 

understanding in her own way that we are now a 

valley divided, that we Gillies are on one side, and 

256 257


most of her school friends’ families are on the other. 

All of us, excepting Isabel and Teddy, are on edge 

about the meeting tonight. 

John helps Father hitch Mae and Ulysses to the 

wagon. I do my best to tighten the harness with my 

one good hand. Father helps Mam, with Teddy in her 

arms, up to the bench. I climb into the flatbed. John, 

Will, Annie, and Isabel are all in the yard to wave us 

good-bye as we set out for the Stevenses’ place. 

The shadows are growing long across the trail, 

though we still have an hour of daylight ahead of us. 

Even Mae and Ulysses have got the jitters. When we 

pass Mr. Bell’s place, Mae shies for no good reason 

and irks Ulysses, who nips at her. Father tightens the 

reins and speaks roughly to the two of them—which 

makes Teddy cry. 

I can’t stop myself from glimpsing through the 

bushes, even though what remains of the cabin is a sad 

and lonely sight, all the more so for the creepers and 

weeds that have already started to grow up around the 

charred timbers. It’s like the wilderness can’t wait to 

claim back Mr. Bell’s stake for its own, like he never 

lived there at all. The forest makes me feel small. What 

if it does have a spirit, just like the Indians say? What 

if it’s like that poet says? Nature is like God—always 

judging. 

When we arrive at the Stevenses’ house, we find a 

single buggy hitched outside. It’s Dr. Thompson’s rig. 

The two fine bays that are harnessed to it are cropping 

new grass along the wagon track. Mismatched Mae 

and Ulysses look a sorry sight beside them. Father 

turns to me. 

“Where are the others?” 

“Maybe they’re on their way,” I say, hoping that at 

least one or two other settlers have yet to arrive—but I 

have a bad feeling. 

Father helps Mam and the baby down from 

our wagon. I follow behind as they step up to the 

Stevenses’ fancy porch. Abigail opens the door. She’s 

been watching for us. 

“They’re in the parlor,” she tells us in a rush—like 

she’s got the jitters, too. 

Their house is so fine that Father and I remove 

our muddy boots out on the porch before we follow 

Abigail inside. The parlor has heavy curtains around 

the window and furniture from back east, including 

a melodeon against one wall, its keys gleaming like 

the whitest teeth. Dr. Thompson and Mr. Stevens 

step forward to shake Father’s hand as we enter. Mam 

is stiff when she says hello to Dr. Thompson. I can 

tell she isn’t pleased to see him again, not after the 

damage he did to Teddy with his tonic. He chucks the 

baby under the chin with his finger without bothering 

to ask how it is that he is still alive. Teddy scrunches 

up his face and gives a little wail. 

258 259


Mrs. Thompson is seated on a blue sofa that has 

feet carved in a curly pattern, like paws. She moves 

aside to make room for Mam, but I can see Mam’s 

discomfort at sitting on such a fancy piece. Mrs. 

Thompson is nice. She makes Mam sit down and takes 

Teddy from her, admiring how much his color has 

improved. Never mind that it was her husband that 

gave Teddy up for dead. Abigail helps Mrs. Stevens 

bring in tea for everyone. I find a stool in the corner 

and sit down, mindful that Father has warned me to 

speak only when spoken to. 

“It’s a pity more citizens haven’t joined us,” Father 

says. “But we have six legal signatures amongst us. 

Mrs. Gillies has an excellent hand,” he adds, making 

Mam blush, “if I may offer her services to copy down 

the letter we draft.” 

A look passes between Dr. Thompson and Mr. 

Stevens. Father sees it and asks, “I assume we are in 

basic agreement about what the letter should say?” 

There’s a tense feeling in the room. Neither man is 

in a hurry to speak, nor to look Father in the eye. At 

last Mr. Stevens breaks the silence. 

“Mr. Gillies, the doctor has been persuading me 

that perhaps we are being too hasty about this letter.” 

Dr. Thompson speaks up. 

“Here’s the fact of the matter, Mr. Gillies. Consider 

what we stand to lose by acting against our own in 

such a rash manner.” 

“Our own?” says Father. “I’ll have nothing to do 

with the likes of Bill Osterman and Dave Harkness, 

thank you very much.” 

“But the others—Bill Moultray and Robert 

Breckenridge and Bert Hopkins,” pipes up Mr. 

Stevens. “These are good men. What’s to become of 

Nooksack if they’re taken away to some Canadian jail? 

And for what? A no-account savage.” 

I can’t believe my ears. He sounds just like Annette 

Bell, telling Mr. Moultray that Louie Sam’s life didn’t 

count for anything, anyway, so it doesn’t matter a whit 

whether or not the hanging was just. 

“A life is a life!” I say. 

Dr. Thompson glances my way, then tells Father, “I 

think it’s best if your son waits outside.” 

“George is a witness,” says Father, at the same time 

sending me a harsh look for my outburst. “He knows 

who murdered Mr. Bell, and it wasn’t the Indian lad.” 

“Everybody knows who murdered him!” 

It’s Mrs. Stevens speaking up. Mr. Stevens tells her 

to shush, but the doctor’s wife stands by her friend. 

“Bertha states the plain truth,” says Mrs. Thompson. 

“Dave Harkness and that woman put Bill Osterman up 

to shooting Mr. Bell.” 

“Mavis!” barks Dr. Thompson. 

“The facts are the facts, my dear,” she says calmly 

while rocking Teddy in her arms. “They’re the only 

people who stood to gain from Mr. Bell’s death. 

260 261


Mr. Harkness and the Bell woman are now free to 

marry without fear of a lawsuit. And Mrs. Bell gets 

her hands on Mr. Bell’s five hundred dollars, in trust 

for their son. Why Mr. Osterman went along with 

the scheme is beyond me, but he must have had his 

reasons.” 

“If we tar Osterman and Harkness, we tar Mr. 

Moultray, too—who’s fighting for statehood, for growth 

and prosperity,” says Mr. Stevens. “We need him. We 

can’t afford to stay a backwater like we are now.” 

“Precisely,” chimes in Dr. Thompson. “Who will 

settle here and buy Mr. Stevens’s lumber without Mr. 

Moultray’s wisdom and leadership?” 

“So it comes down to greed against what’s right,” 

says Mam. 

She’s been so quiet, everyone’s forgotten she’s there. 

Now all eyes are upon her. The doctor puffs himself up 

with offense. 

“Do not presume, Mrs. Gillies,” he says, “to judge 

my moral character. As founding fathers of this town, 

it behoves the gentlemen present to consider what is 

best for all of us, for our future.” 

“Have you forgotten, Dr. Thompson,” says Mam, 

“that we women have the vote now as well as the men, 

and a say in our future, too?” 

“We shall see for how long, madam. We shall see 

for how long. This is proof of the unfitness of the 

weaker sex for political life!” 

Father is angry at the tone he’s taking with Mam. 

“I’ll not have you speaking to my wife that way!” 

“Then control her, sir!” 

Mr. Stevens steps in, speaking directly to Father. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gillies. My wife and I can’t sign 

your letter.” 

“And neither will Mrs. Thompson nor myself,” adds 

the doctor. 

I look over to Mrs. Stevens and Mrs. Thompson, 

so free with their thoughts a moment ago. Mrs. 

Thompson keeps her head bowed over Teddy. Mrs. 

Stevens busies herself pouring more tea. A terrible 

silence has fallen over the room. 

“Very well then,” says Father at last. “Anna, 

George—we’re leaving.” 

Mam collects Teddy from Mrs. Thompson. 

“Goodnight, Mrs. Gillies. He’s a lovely baby,” says 

Mrs. Thompson, as though nothing unpleasant has 

taken place. 

I look over to Abigail, who’s been standing in the 

doorway all this time, on the edge of the meeting. 

She meets my eyes with a pitiful look, from which 

I understand that she has no choice but to take her 

parents’ side. She slips over to the far side of the parlor 

to give Father, Mam, and me a wide berth as we head 

to the door. Dr. Thompson is the only one to come out 

onto the porch after us. 

“Gillies,” he says to Father. “People in this valley 

262 263


have worked hard for what they have, and they will 

punish those who act against them. I say this as a 

caution.” 

Father gives him no reply. 

The light has faded to almost nothing as Mae and 

Ulysses lead the way home. The evening is so still, 

it’s hard to say whether the hoot of an owl is coming 

from half a mile away, or five. Father’s holding himself 

upright and stiff. After a long while riding, I say, “We 

can still write the letter.” 

Father crooks his neck toward me slightly. The 

tightness of his jaw matches that of his back and 

shoulders. He turns away again, saying nothing. It’s 

Mam who speaks. 

“Let it be, George.” 

Mae starts acting up, then Ulysses. Something has 

the pair of them spooked. Another moment or two, 

and I smell it, too—something burning. Father slaps 

the reins and with a shout makes Mae and Ulysses 

move forward. When we round a bend, we can see 

smoke rising above the trees in the direction of Sumas 

Creek—in the direction of our home. 

Chapter Thirty-One 

When Father sees the smoke, he stops the wagon 

and tells me to drive the rig the rest of the way home. 

I climb up front and take the reins while he jumps 

down and runs ahead, disappearing from our sight 

around the next bend. Mam clutches Teddy tight the 

whole rest of the way. It’s not easy keeping Mae and 

Ulysses moving, me with only one good arm and they 

decided against forward motion. Finally, Ulysses stops 

and digs in his heels as only a mule can, refusing to go 

on no matter how much I holler at him. I get down 

and, taking hold of Mae’s halter, lead her forward so 

that Ulysses has no choice but to follow. 

When our cabin comes into sight, Mam and I are 

relieved to see it still standing, but we can see flames 

licking up over the trees in the direction of the creek. 

We can hear Gyp barking fiercely from down that way. 

Annie is out front with Isabel. They come running to 

meet us. 

“The mill is on fire!” Annie calls to us. 

“The mill is on fire!” says Isabel, Annie’s echo. 

264 265


Mam tells me to stop the wagon so she can get 

down. She puts Teddy into Annie’s arms and tells 

her to take him and Isabel into the cabin and to keep 

them there. 

“Where are John and Will?” she wants to know. 

“Down at the mill with Father.” 

Mam starts running down the path to the mill. I 

tie off Mae and Ulysses to a tree and follow Mam, 

lickety-split. At the end of the path I find Mam 

stopped, staring at the wall of the mill, now a wall of 

flame—the roaring heat warping the air around it. 

Gypsy is at Mam’s side, whimpering in between barks. 

Mam cries out, “How could they do such a thing?” 

I look at the angry blaze and know in my heart 

that Mam is right—this is what Dr. Thompson 

meant when he talked about punishment. Through 

the smoke, I make out John and Will by the pond, 

scooping up buckets of water. 

“Go back to the house, Mam,” I tell her. “Take 

Gyp. Keep the children safe.” 

In a flash Mam sees what I’m driving at, that if they 

hate us so much they could set the mill on fire, they 

could do the same to our home. She calls to Gyp and 

hurries back up the path, while I run to the pond and 

grab a bucket to help John and Will haul water. 

“When did it start?” I call to the boys over the din 

of fire and crashing timbers. 

“’Bout half an hour ago!” shouts John. “Gyp was 

barking and wouldn’t stop. I came outside and smelled 

the smoke.” 

I turn to the mill with my full bucket and see Will 

handing off a pail to Father, who throws water at the 

east wall, the one containing the waterwheel. My 

heart takes a leap to see Joe Hampton at his side—I’m 

thinking that maybe with all of these hands we have 

a chance at saving something. I hand my water off to 

Joe, who pivots and splashes it onto a spur of orange 

and yellow that’s making its way toward the wheel, 

which so far has been spared. He shirks off the blanket 

he’s wearing as a poncho and tosses it to me. 

“Get it wet!” he yells. 

I leave the water buckets to John and Will and 

throw the blanket into the pond, finding enough 

strength in my left hand that between it and my 

good right one I can pull its sodden weight back out 

of the water. I carry it back to Joe, who grabs it and 

starts beating back the flames with it. I pick up my 

bucket and fetch more water. Father has three of us 

bringing him buckets now and is able to pick up the 

pace of dousing near the waterwheel while Joe works 

his way around to the south wall, where the flames 

are so fierce. So far the fire hasn’t reached the creekside 

north wall. If we can stop it from spreading any 

further, we’ll keep the wheel from burning. 

John and I are at the pond, side by side, filling our 

buckets when a gunshot cracks the air. We both look 

266 267


in the direction of our cabin where it came from, both 

with new fears. I glance over to Father and Joe, still 

working. Neither of them heard it. They’re too close to 

the roar of the fire. 

“You stay,” I tell John. 

I set down my bucketful of water so he can carry 

two, and I run up the path to our house. Mam is 

standing outside, holding Father’s rifle. So that’s 

where the shot came from. She calls to me, “There’s 

two of them!” 

I look to where I can hear Gyp barking, in the 

bushes along the track that leads to the house, and 

I see two points of light bobbing between the trees. 

Lanterns. Gypsy is out there, barking fiercely. I take 

the rifle from Mam and tell her to get back inside and 

lock the door. With only one good arm, I can’t load the 

rifle—there’s naught I can do but use it for show. But 

it’s better than facing whoever’s out there bare-handed. 

There’s a yelp from Gyp, and then she’s silent. 

I don’t see the lights from the lanterns any longer. 

I listen for the snap of a twig, but all is still. Mae 

gives a nervous whinny from where she and Ulysses 

are tied along the track. In the moonlight I can see 

her nodding and shaking her head. I step softly over 

to the wagon and use it for cover as I scan into the 

woods for movement, but there’s none that I can see. 

I’m worried about Gyp, that she’s gone so quiet. What 

have they done to her? 

“Get off our land!” I yell. “I’ve got a gun!” 

There’s a choked off laugh, coming from the right 

of me—not far into the bush. It sounds like a kid! 

“I can hear you!” I call. “I know you’re there!” 

A voice comes back at me, a voice I recognize as 

belonging to Tom Breckenridge. 

“And what the hell are you going to do about it 

with one arm broke!” he shouts, taunting me. 

“I know that’s you, Tom!” I say. 

Now I can see his lantern light through the trees, 

and I can hear the swish of undergrowth as he comes 

my way. There’s a second light behind him, bobbing 

toward me. 

“Who’s with you?” I call. 

But in another second I can see for myself. It’s Pete 

Harkness. 

“Unless you’re planning on throwing that rifle at us, 

you may as well put it away, George,” says Tom with a 

grin. “We know you can’t shoot straight.” 

Tom looks over to Pete to see if he appreciates his 

joke. Pete gives a laugh. I lower the gun. I couldn’t 

shoot them, even if it was loaded. 

“Did you set the fire?” I say. 

“What fire?” says Tom, still with that grin on 

his face. 

“I’m telling the sheriff it was you!” 

“Go ahead,” says Pete, “if you think the sheriff ’s 

ever going to listen to you again after all the lies 

268 269


you’ve been telling him about folks.” 

“It’s a shame about your mill,” Tom says. “I hope 

nothing else bad happens to you.” He turns to Pete. 

“C’mon,” he says. “There’s a bad smell around here, 

like dirty Indians.” 

“Or dirty Indian lovers.” 

“Same thing.” 

Tom and Pete step out of the bush and amble away 

toward the trail, like they’re out for an evening stroll. 

“Pete!” I call. Tom keeps walking, but Pete turns 

back to me. “What did you do to Gypsy?” 

In the light from his lantern, I can see him lose his 

cocky look. For a second I see the old Pete, my friend. 

He knew Gyp from when she was a pup. When we 

were boys, we used to take our dogs with us when we 

went hunting for rabbits and the like. 

“It weren’t me,” he says. For a second he seems 

broken up, then in a flash he gets angry. “You were 

there that night, George,” he tells me. “It was your 

idea to follow them. You were part of it. Don’t make 

like you wasn’t.” 

I stare at him wishing with all my might that I 

could find some reason why he’s wrong, why he had 

more to do with the lynching than I did, why he’s 

guilty of taking a boy’s life and I’m innocent. But he 

speaks the truth. I’ve got blood on my hands, same as 

him. The only difference between us is that I’m sorry 

for what happened. What use is that to Louie Sam? 

Pete looks like he wants to say something more, but 

instead he just shrugs and follows Tom off down the 

track. I watch them go. There’s no point in pretending 

there’s something I can do about them. There’s no 

point at all. 

270 271


Chapter Thirty-Two 

For the rest of that night I helped Father, Joe, 

and my brothers save what we could of the mill. The 

waterwheel wasn’t too badly damaged, though the 

driveshaft was burned. Father thought about replacing 

it, but then he thought about how much business the 

mill was likely to see, given how the mood in the valley 

had swung against us. So the mill sits there as we left 

it that night, the east and creek-side walls mostly still 

standing, but the insides charred and in ruins. 

At first light I went looking for Gypsy. I found her 

lying on her side behind a moss-covered log, the fur 

around her neck sticky with dried blood. Her throat 

had been cut by Tom Breckenridge. I knew we should 

count ourselves lucky that it was only the dog that 

died that night, and not one of the family, but I cried 

anyway—for Gypsy, for Louie Sam, and for the wrong 

I was part of and knew then I would never be able to 

put right, not with the whole Nooksack Valley bent 

on whitewashing the business of who really murdered 

James Bell. 

For the next few months we heard rumblings about 

the Canadian government trying to find out who led 

the lynch mob, but Governor Newell stopped being 

governor in July, and the new governor, Mr. Squire, 

didn’t take the same interest. Joe Hampton told me 

that most of Louie Sam’s people, the Sumas, moved 

away from Sumas Prairie up the Fraser Valley while 

they waited for justice—because they felt safer farther 

away from the International Border. 

After a while, people around Nooksack acted 

like they’d forgotten all about Mr. Bell and Louie 

Sam—mostly because neither was a subject for polite 

conversation, or any other kind of conversation, for 

that matter. Bill Moultray, Robert Breckenridge, Bert 

Hopkins, Dave Harkness, and Bill Osterman have 

gone on with their lives like nothing bad happened at 

all. So my guess is that the Sumas will be waiting for 

quite a while before they get the justice they expect 

for Louie Sam. 

Late in the spring, Dave Harkness married Mrs. 

Bell, making an honest woman out of her—more or 

less. Mr. Moultray held a dance above the livery stable 

to celebrate the occasion. I hear that Kitty’s father, Mr. 

Pratt, played his fiddle. We Gillies were not invited, 

not that I wanted to set foot near a Harkness ever 

again after what happened, nor near their kin Bill 

Osterman. Abigail stayed home that evening, too, even 

though she loves to dance. When she found out what 

272 273


Pete and Tom did to our mill and to Gypsy, she would 

have nothing to do with them. I’m happy to say that 

at least Abigail is still my friend. Well, more than my 

friend. I guess you would call us sweethearts. 

Agnes has gone back to live with the Nooksack. As 

for Joe, he talks about clearing the land around their 

shack and becoming a farmer. Then in the next breath 

he says he thinks he’ll cross the border into Canada 

and go live in the wilderness, trapping and hunting 

like his mother’s people have done for centuries. If 

he leaves, we’ll miss him. We Gillies will never forget 

how he came to help put out the fire. 

Once in a while, if I’m walking through the woods 

alone, I wonder if Louie Sam’s spirit might come to 

me again. Joe says he could come as a raven or as a 

coyote, you never know. I’ve thought a lot about what 

I’d say to him this time if I had the chance. I’d tell him 

that I thought he was brave the way he held his chin 

up that night with all those grown men shouting at 

him and calling him names. I’d tell him that I’m sorry 

that I believed so quickly the lie that Bill Osterman 

made up about him. And I’d tell him that I pray for 

him to God, and to all the spirits of this valley. 

274 275


Afterword 

This book is a work of fiction, but the key people 

and events are based on fact. On the evening of 

February 27, 1884, teenagers George Gillies and 

Pete Harkness secretly followed the Nooksack 

lynch mob as they traveled north into Canada with 

the aim of seizing Louie Sam for the murder of 

Nooksack resident James Bell, four days earlier. 

The mob, disguised in “war paint” and costumes, 

was led by William Osterman, William Moultray, 

Robert Breckenridge, and Bert Hopkins. Near the 

International Border between the Washington 

Territory and British Columbia, the lynch mob 

encountered Whatcom County Sheriff Stuart Leckie 

on his return from Canada, where that day he had 

witnessed Canadian Justice of the Peace William 

Campbell handcuff fourteen-year-old Louie Sam and 

leave him in custody overnight at the farmhouse of 

Thomas York, whom Campbell had deputized as a 

constable. The lynch mob sent one of their number 

ahead to Mr. York’s farmhouse to pose as a traveler in 

need of a bed for the night. Mrs. Phoebe Campbell— 

Mr. York’s daughter and the wife of Justice 

Campbell—later recounted that Mr. York believed 

that this infiltrator unlocked the farmhouse door 

after the household had retired for the night, thereby 

allowing the mob easy access to Louie Sam. 

276 277


George and Pete were in Mr. York’s yard when the 

mob entered his house and hauled Louie Sam, still 

handcuffed, outside. And they were present when, on 

the ride back south to Nooksack, the mob stopped 

just short of the border and put a noose around Louie 

Sam’s neck. Eyewitness accounts report that when 

Louie Sam recognized William Moultray through 

his disguise, he spoke his only words of the night, 

recorded variously as: “Bill Moultray, I get you” and “I 

know you Bill Moultray, and when I get out of this I 

will get you.” His identity exposed, Moultray slapped 

the flank of the pony that was carrying Louie Sam, 

causing the pony to bolt—and Louie Sam to hang. 

It was never proven that William Osterman, the 

Nooksack telegraph operator, murdered James Bell. 

However, the historical record shows that immediately 

following Louie Sam’s death the Stó:lō Nation 

presented evidence to the Canadian authorities that 

he was guilty, based on Louie Sam’s account of his 

visit to Nooksack to seek work from Osterman on 

the morning of James Bell’s murder. The Stó:lō were 

convinced that William Osterman lured Louie Sam to 

Nooksack as a scapegoat for the murder he planned to 

commit. 

No clear motive existed for Osterman to murder 

Bell, apart from Osterman’s friendship with his 

brother-in-law, Dave Harkness. But Dave Harkness 

and Annette Bell had plenty of motive. It was 

rumored that at the time of his murder James Bell 

was threatening to sue Dave Harkness and Annette 

Bell. Annette Bell inherited five hundred dollars 

from Bell in trust for their son as well as six hundred 

dollars in proceeds from the sale of his land—which 

the Harknesses used to open a dry goods store. Bill 

Osterman got the job of appraiser of Mr. Bell’s estate, 

and so took his cut of the proceeds. Dave Harkness 

died the next year, in 1885. Annette Harkness 

continued to operate the dry goods store and the 

ferry at The Crossing after his death. In the Whatcom 

County census of 1885, she is listed as a merchant. 

She later married Dave Harkness’s friend Jack 

Simpson. 

The Washington Territory achieved statehood 

in 1889. Bill Moultray was elected to the first state 

senate and remained in that office for many years. It 

is true that women were given the right to vote in the 

Washington Territory in 1883, but in 1887 female 

suffrage was struck down by a ruling of the Territorial 

Supreme Court. Women would not regain the right to 

vote in Washington State until 1910, and federally not 

until 1920. 

Records show that George Gillies was born in 

England and immigrated to the Washington Territory 

with his Scots-born parents, Peter and Anna, probably 

in the 1870s, where Peter Gillies built a gristmill on 

Sumas Creek. According to an interview published 

278 279


in 1946 that the then elderly George Gillies gave to 

the Abbotsford, Sumas and Matsqui News, he and his 

brothers discovered the body of James Bell on the 

morning of February 24, 1884, while on their way 

to Sunday school. However, the character of George 

Gillies as portrayed in this book is invented. I have 

taken creative license with George’s redemptive arc 

and his slow dawning of awareness of the injustice 

committed against Louie Sam, and with the 

persecution that his family suffered as a result. 

Fearing a cross-border war between the Stó:lō 

Nation and the American settlers, the B.C. and 

Canadian governments promised the Stó:lō swift 

action immediately following the lynching. Within 

two weeks of Louie Sam’s death, Canadian authorities 

dispatched two detectives to the Nooksack Valley to 

identify the leaders of the mob. One of the agents, 

a Mr. Clark, was driven out after being threatened 

by Annette Bell with “catching an incurable throat 

disease.” Prior to retreating to B.C., Agent Clark 

interviewed several Nooksack Valley residents who 

believed that motive and circumstances pointed to 

William Osterman as the murderer of James Bell. 

There was widespread belief that Louie Sam was 

framed by Osterman, who subsequently led the lynch 

mob in order to silence his scapegoat before Louie 

Sam could reveal the truth in a Canadian court of law. 

Ultimately, neither Canadian nor American 

authorities had the resolve to see justice achieved. 

After initial promises to the government of Sir John 

A. Macdonald in Ottawa to further the investigation, 

American interest fell off. Wrote Washington 

Territory Governor Newell in July, 1884: 

It is well nigh impossible to make discoveries of 

a band of disguised people who, with the entire 

community, are interested in the secrecy which 

pertains to such illegal and violent transactions. 

In other words, despite the fact that the identities 

of the mob leaders were common knowledge, 

the American authorities had closed ranks with 

the settlers of the Nooksack Valley. It was left to 

Canada to initiate extradition proceedings, but the 

government did not act on the evidence gathered by 

Mr. Clark for fear of jeopardizing relations with the 

United States. 

Within a few years, the Stó:lō population in the 

Fraser Valley declined due to the toll of European 

diseases. The influx of settlers further shifted the 

population ratio so that the Stó:lō became the 

minority in their own land. With the fear of an Indian 

uprising diminished by this decline in population, the 

Canadian government gave up its pursuit of justice for 

Louie Sam. 

But the murder of Louie Sam remained an open 

280 281


wound for the Stó:lō Nation. In 2006, healing began 

when the Washington State legislature approved a 

resolution expressing sympathy to the Stó:lō for the 

lynching, acknowledging that both Washington and 

B.C. “failed to take adequate action to identify the 

true culprit of the murder and bring the organizers 

and members of the lynch mob to justice.” It wasn’t 

a formal apology, but it was a recognition of Louie 

Sam’s innocence. 

Apart from recounting the horrors of the actual 

lynching, I found the most difficult aspect of writing 

this novel was presenting a truthful portrayal of 

nineteenth-century racism. Native Americans fell into 

a category all their own in the nineteenth-century 

pecking order of bigotry that targeted, among others, 

African-Americans, the Chinese, and the Irish. Native 

Americans were feared and reviled by many, especially 

settlers in the west, as hostile savages. They were 

romanticized by others as primitive children living 

in a natural, pre-civilized state. Missionaries saw the 

aboriginal peoples as heathens in need of Christian 

salvation and stepped up to the task—undermining 

First Nations cultures and languages and helping to 

spread European diseases like smallpox, tuberculosis, 

mumps, and measles that decimated aboriginal 

populations throughout North America. 

Happily, today the Stó:lō Nation represents a 

thriving community of eleven bands—among them 

the Sumas—working toward self-government and the 

preservation of Stó:lō culture. It is my understanding 

that, to this day, the memory of Louie Sam remains 

very much alive in Stó:lō culture as an important 

reminder of the historical racism, injustice, and loss 

suffered by The People of the River. 

—Elizabeth Stewart 

Publisher’s Acknowledgment 

Annick Press wishes to acknowledge Stephen 

Osborne’s powerful article “Stories of a Lynching,” 

about the true events surrounding the lynching 

of Louie Sam, which appeared in issue 60 of Geist 

magazine. The revelations in this article were the 

motivating force for pursuing the story in a form that 

would appeal to young adult readers. 

282 283


about the author 

Elizabeth Stewart has been a screenwriter for 

twenty years. She has won several awards for her 

work on television series for young people, including 

The Adventures of Shirley Holmes and Guinevere 

Jones. She has also written movies for television, 

among them Tagged: The Jonathan Wamback Story, an 

examination of teen violence based on a true incident, 

and Luna: Spirit of the Whale, which chronicled the 

transformational effect of a stray killer whale on a 

First Nations community on Vancouver Island. Both 

of these films were nominated for Gemini Awards. 

Elizabeth lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, 

where she is currently at work on her second novel. 

284 285


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by Allan Stratton 

paperback $11.95 | hardcover $19.95 

H Michael L. Printz Honor Book for Excellence in 

YA Literature, ALA 

H Top 10 Black History Books for Youth, Booklist 

Chanda, an astonishingly perceptive 16-year-old 

girl living in the small city of Bonang in Africa, 

must confront the undercurrents of shame and stigma associated 

with HIV/AIDS. 

“No-one can read Chanda’s Secrets and remain untouched by the young 

people who are caught in the AIDS pandemic and still battling to make 

sense of their lives.”—Stephen Lewis, UN special envoy for HIV/AIDS 

in Africa 

The Apprentice’s Masterpiece: A 

Story of Medieval Spain 

by Melanie Little 


H Independent Publisher Book Award 

H White Ravens Collection, International Youth 

Library, Munich 

A brilliant and elegantly written story in verse 

about one of the most politically complex and troubling times in 

human history—the Spanish Inquisition. 

“The subject and the history are enthralling …”—Booklist 

“This riveting story is peopled by flesh-and-blood characters and replete 

with … historical detail.”—School Library Journal 

The Bite of the Mango 

by Mariatu Kamara with Susan McClelland 


H White Ravens Collection, International Youth 

Library, Munich 

H Silver Award Winner, Book of the Year, 

ForeWord Reviews 

The astounding true story of one girl’s journey 

from war victim to UNICEF Special Representative. 

“… a powerful commentary on one of the many costs of wars. An 

essential purchase …”—Kirkus, starred review 

“... this book will unsettle readers—and then inspire them ...” 

—Publishers Weekly, starred review 

Cry of the Giraffe: Based on a 

True Story 

by Judie Oron 


H 2011 USBBY Outstanding International Books 

Honor List 

A girl’s harrowing trek from exile and slavery to 

hope in a new land, based on the true experiences of a 15-year-old 

Ethiopian Jewish refugee. 

“… shows with brutal, unflinching detail the horrors of refugee life and 

child slavery and the shocking vulnerability of young females in the 

developing world …”—Booklist Online 

286 287


The Hangman in the Mirror 

by Kate Cayley 


In 18th-century North America, a strong-willed 

16-year-old maid caught stealing from her 

mistress must use her wits to escape death by 

hanging. Based on a true story. 

“… does everything good historical fiction should—give the reader a 

tremendously detailed sense of time and place … through the eyes of a 

protagonist whose emotions are relatable to a modern audience.” 

—ForeWord Reviews 

Generals Die in Bed: A Story from 

the Trenches 

by Charles Yale Harrison 

hardcover $9.95 

Drawing on his own experiences in the First 

World War, Charles Yale Harrison tells a stark 

and poignant story of a young man sent to fight 

on the Western Front. 

“The best novel about Canadians in the Great War.”—Professor J.L. 

Granatstein, former director, Canadian War Museum 

“This is a powerful literary work that deserves an audience beyond 

young adults.”—ForeWord Reviews 

288

Lynching - Annick Press

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